


Catch a Falling Star

by Flywoman



Series: Never a Bride [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Adultery, Angst and Humor, M/M, Spain, Star-crossed, eurocopa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xavi Hernández grows up, falls in love, and takes Spain to victory in the 2012 Euros, not necessarily in that order. A sort of sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/373693">Never a Bride</a> (but you don't need to have read that one first).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finding Fault

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** While inspired by real persons and events, this story is a work of fiction.  
>  **Thanks:** To my betas [](http://jezziejay-rpf.livejournal.com/profile)[**jezziejay_rpf**](http://jezziejay-rpf.livejournal.com/) and [](http://sageharper.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sageharper.livejournal.com/)**sageharper** , without whose encouragement I never would have finished this fic.  
> I did quite a bit of research in order to make this story canon-compliant (see notes at end). However, I wrote over fifty pages before I discovered that UEFA requires players to be housed in individual rooms in its tournaments, and there was no straightforward way to fix it. So... let's just assume that this is an AU in which Spanish footballers share rooms at the Euros as well as have hot sex with each other, 'kay?

When Xavi Hernández turned up in Madrid for Euro 2012 training with the rest of the Barcelona call-ups in tow, he was greeted by everyone except for the person he most wanted to see.

"It's about time, you lazy fuckers," Pepe Reina boomed as they entered the hotel lobby, jogging up with a delighted grin to grab Xavi in a huge hug.

Xavi rebounded a little with the impact and reached up to return the favor, unable to wrap his arms completely around the goalkeeper's broad back. "Eh, _gordo_ , we've missed you too."

"What doesn't kill you..." Pepe said, shrugging. "Anyway, good that you've finally decided to join us. Especially Shorty over there," and he jerked his chin at Gerard Piqué. "I was getting tired of providing all of the entertainment around here."

"Sorry," Geri said with a wink, "we had to stop to pick up one more trophy along the way."

"The Copa del Rey is merely a consolation prize," Xabi Alonso sniffed. He and the other Real Madrid players still had not budged from their positions off to one side of the lobby.

Sergio Busquets murmured, "That's not what we were hearing last year when you guys won it."

"Actually, Ramos cared so little about the Copa that he threw it away," Geri joked. Cesc Fábregas hooted, then clapped a hand to his mouth, looking embarrassed.

"Get some new material," Xabi said, sounding bored.

Alvaro Arbeloa leaned in. "I'm _glad_ you won the Copa this year. This way we'll get to humiliate you again in the Supercopa before the season even starts."

"Yeah, you Barça boys should have just stayed home and prepared," Sergio Ramos sneered, striding over to plant a hand on Geri's chest and shove him hard enough that he took an involuntary step backwards. "We're going to trample you into the _ground_."

Since their team captain wasn't around to smooth things over, Xavi was there in an instant, deftly inserting himself between them. "Eh, _cabrón_ ," he barked up at Ramos, "why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

Ramos glared down, surprised and confused, as the rest of their teammates, including Geri, began to titter. Xavi knew from painful past experience that Ramos wasn't above hitting him, height difference be damned, but he was willing to gamble that the other man wouldn't risk looking ridiculous once the unevenness of their confrontation had been made so clear to everyone.

Sure enough, after a few seconds, Ramos laughed reluctantly and clapped Xavi on the shoulder, not quite heavily enough to hurt. "Just a little joking around between teammates," he said. "We're cool."

"Let's get you all checked in," Pepe said hastily.

The Real Madrid players gave Xavi and the rest an exaggeratedly wide berth as they filed to the front desk. Xavi was already feeling the beginnings of a tension headache. It was going to be a long tournament.

*

Xavi's reunion with Iker did nothing to improve the state of his head.

His captain was waiting for him in the room that they were to share, his duffle bag for some reason neatly packed and perched on the bed near the entrance. As soon as he'd shut the door, Xavi dropped his own bags and strode forward to give Iker a hearty hug. But when he felt the other man stiffen in his arms, he frowned and released him, backing away.

"Something wrong?" he asked, honestly puzzled. Iker definitely looked as though he had something difficult to say as he stood there scratching self-consciously at the back of his neck. "Why weren't you down in the lobby to meet us?"

"Xavi, I, um, wanted to talk to you about something." When Xavi raised an inquiring eyebrow, Iker took a deep breath and continued, "I was thinking that, under the circumstances, maybe it would be better if we didn't share a room."

Xavi could feel a deeper frown furrowing his brow. "I don't understand," he said. "We've always shared. I was-" he stopped then and bit his lip. To say that looking forward to spending so much time with Iker while playing for the _Selección_ this summer was one of the only things that had kept him going through the shitty end of the season would be an understatement.

"Not since Sara," Iker said, looking a bit desperate. "Not for any length of time."

Xavi planted his hands on his hips, angry now. "What are you worried about, that I won't take no for an answer and you'll have to pry me out of your bed with a crowbar? I'm an _excellent_ ex-boyfriend. You can ask Elsa."

"It's not-" Iker began.

"If you say, 'It's not you, it's me,' I am going to smack you for being such a walking cliché," Xavi threatened, only half-joking.

Iker let his shoulders slump, defeated. "Fine. I was just trying to make things a little easier on both of us. There are bound to be enough tensions in the team already."

"You're telling me," Xavi said, rolling his eyes. "I was expecting someone to break into a number from _West Side Story_ any second." He was rewarded by a faint smile. "Seriously, don't worry about me. It's been almost two years since I found out about Sara. I can totally handle this."

*

"I can _not_ handle this," Xavi moaned to Carles Puyol on the phone after training the following morning. Arbeloa and Busi had very nearly gotten into a fistfight after one of them tripped the other in pursuit of a ball and both went down in a mad tangle of limbs, and Xabi Alonso kept kicking long balls, as if any of Barcelona's midfielders would be able to beat an opposing team to a header. "These _merengues_ are driving me insane. Please, please come back and be Iker's vice captain."

"I would if I could," Puyi said, not sounding particularly sympathetic.

"I know, I know," Xavi sighed. "How's the knee?"

"Healing right on schedule," Puyi assured him. "I'm planning to be back in time for preseason. Probably sooner than _you_ will if you manage to make it to the finals."

"If we make it to the finals," Xavi said, "I am going to spend two weeks on a desert island and do nothing but swim and sunbathe. I will not take my phone or my laptop, and no one will be able to ask me to tell his teammate to stop kicking him."

"I hear Ibiza is lovely that time of year," Puyi rumbled.

*

The team's performance in their friendly match against China left much to be desired.

Xavi started, as he had expected, but had no luck connecting with Álvaro Negredo, who had height and strength but didn't really seem to get the idea that forwards had to make plays too, not just wait for the ball to arrive tied up in a shiny bow. They were both substituted before halftime to give Del Bosque a chance to assess additional players, Xavi by Jesus Navas and Negredo by Fernando Torres. Xavi was a bit nonplussed to be taken off so quickly, but he had to admit that he had been slower than usual on his feet, and even playing for less than forty-five minutes had left him winded. A niggling voice in the back of his head suggested that he was beginning to get a bit old for this.

In the second half, Torres had some good chances, but, consistent with his less than stellar season at Chelsea, he failed to make the most of them. Little David Silva finally scored in the 84th minute, and the match ended in an unimpressive 1-0.

*

After the match, the mood in the dressing room was subdued. It had only been a friendly, and their first game that integrated the Barcelona boys, but everyone was obviously disappointed with the result. Negredo and Torres in particular looked slightly sulky, so Iker and Xavi made a point of taking each of them aside and speaking a few words of encouragement before they hit the showers.

Clean, hair styled, and dressed neatly for his interview with Canal+, Xavi was on his way out of the locker room when Xabi Alonso said to Ramos, just loudly enough for him to hear as he passed by, "Now there's a man with a bright future behind him."

Instead of snickering on cue, Ramos frowned, trying to work this out, even as Geri sauntered over. "What did you just say?" he asked with an easy smile.

"Just quoting Oscar Wilde," Xabi answered coolly.

"He can still pass circles around _you_ ," Pedro piped up from behind Geri.

"Yeah," Xabi said, rolling his eyes. "Pass, pass, pass, pass, steal, lob, GOOOOOOL. That was the sound of Barça losing," he elaborated when the rest regarded him, nonplussed.

Xavi and Geri exchanged glances. "That wasn't even funny."

"Actually," Arbeloa put in, " _this_ is the sound of Barça losing." He winked at Xabi and then ran his fingers through his hair so that it stood on end and imitated Xavi's rapid speech patterns: "It was just bad luck. Clearly we deserved to win. We were the only ones playing real football." He and Ramos smirked and high-fived each other.

"Gotta say I'm with _los blancos_ on this one," Juan Mata remarked.

"All right, calm down," Iker commanded, coming over to lay a restraining hand on Xavi's shoulder. "We've all said and done some hurtful things during the season, but we've got to put all that behind us now and play as a team. Forgive and forget. Isn't that right, Xavi?"

"Yeah," Xabi and Xavi muttered simultaneously, sticking their hands out. Xavi braced himself but still wasn't able to completely avoid the pain of his taller teammate's crushing grip. He wouldn't give Xabi the satisfaction of a gasp, though, instead waiting until he had nodded curtly and excused himself before ducking behind the door of the dressing room to massage his hand, swearing softly.

*

His hand was still stiff and sore when he appeared for his spot on Canal+. Perhaps that was part of what prompted him to reiterate his position from previous interviews, that his teammates had congratulated Real Madrid when they won the League, but the other team had not shown Barcelona the same sportsmanship and respect. It was nothing he hadn't said before, and probably nothing that he wouldn't have good cause to say again.

*

It only occurred to Xavi the following evening when he returned to his hotel room after dinner to find Iker waiting for him with his arms folded forebodingly, that perhaps his timing in this particular case had been less than impeccable.

"Man," Iker said as soon as the door had shut behind him, "you really don't have any brain-to-mouth filter whatsoever, do you?"

"You always found that to be one of my many endearing qualities," Xavi joked half-heartedly. He could tell already that Iker was truly pissed off. He was used to seeing his captain stomp and scream on the pitch, particularly when one of his defenders had lost focus and let some striker from the other team have a go at his goal. They'd even gone a few rounds in the bedroom over the years, raising outraged voices if never their fists. But Iker was far more frightening like this, his voice cold and barely loud enough to carry.

" _Not funny_ , Xavi. I just saw the preview of your Canal+ interview. What the hell did you think you were doing out there? You thought that there wasn't already enough speculation in the media about the effects the big rivalry would have on the Selección? Oh wait, no, that wasn't it. Because you obviously were not thinking. At all."

"It was all true," Xavi said sullenly. Somewhere deep down he knew that his teammates had every right to be angry about his terrible timing, but he was not about to admit as much, even - perhaps especially - to Iker.

"Who the hell cares? You're on _this_ team now. Fucking _act_ like it."

They stared silently at each other for a full minute, Xavi feeling ill-used and self-righteous, and unwilling to make room in his hot, swollen heart for remorse. They'd had plenty of arguments in the time that they'd played with and against each other, but there had always been that underlying affection, and later both desire and deep respect. Now he was unable to recognize any of those in Iker's exasperated eyes.

Finally "I'm going for a walk," Xavi announced, and left as quickly as he could, hoping that Iker wouldn't notice how badly his legs were shaking. The slam of the door behind him was not nearly as satisfying as he had expected.

In his clumsy haste, he literally fell over the shadowed figure sitting with legs outstretched in the hallway just outside their door, and suddenly found himself lying facedown in Fernando Torres' lap.

" _Joder_ ," Nando yelped, his arms coming up automatically to support his surprise assailant. "Are you okay?"

Embarrassed, Xavi shrank away, pushed himself back onto his knees. He wasn't sure that getting to his feet just yet was actually an option, so he covered his confusion by confronting his teammate instead. "Fine. What are you doing lurking here, _Niño_? Does Juan snore or something?"

Nando shrugged unhappily. "I needed to be alone for a while. The rec room was full, and I couldn't leave the hotel."

"Hmm," Xavi said. "I'd offer you our room, but now is probably not the best time for me to ask Iker for a favor." He went hot, then cold again at the thought of his roommate's empty eyes.

"Xavi," Nando said abruptly, "How do you do it?"

Xavi looked back at him, nonplussed. The other man almost seemed to be on the verge of tears. "Do what?"

"Not _care_." His face must have revealed his shock and indignation because Nando quickly elaborated, "The press, the horrible things they're saying, that you're too slow, washed up, that I don't really deserve to be here..."

Xavi drew his brows together, then nodded sharply. He stood, steadily enough, and held out his hand. "Walk with me." At Nando's hesitation, he cajoled, "Come on, I bet that we can find you a doughnut."

"Great," Nando groaned, but he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "Do you know what they call me on the fan sites? _Fatnando_."

"I don't get it," Xavi said, frowning.

"Seriously? 'Fat' means _gordo_ , so _Fat_... oh, never mind, it doesn't really translate."

"I know what the word means, I don't get it because it doesn't sound all that similar, and anyway you're not fat. And you should probably just stay off the internet, it will only make you crazy."

"No doughnuts," Nando said with finality.

"Fine." Xavi continued to tow Torres along, gaze bouncing from door to door. "Which room is yours again?" Nando jerked his chin, and he raised his fist and rapped impatiently.

Juan Mata answered in sweatpants, looking decidedly out of sorts. But when he saw that it was Xavi, his expression changed subtly, smoothing itself over to a careful blankness. He said nothing, only stood in the doorway, but his body language proclaimed Xavi's unwelcome status loud and clear.

Xavi was nothing if not capable of ignoring a hint. "May I?"

"Suit yourself," Juan responded coolly, leaving the obvious _you will anyway_ unspoken. "I was just leaving." He stalked down the hall towards Pepe's room, giving Nando a brief glare of betrayal over his shoulder.

"Don't mind him," Nando said. "He's probably still a little peeved about the CL semifinal."

"You guys won," Xavi pointed out, puzzled.

"I meant about what you told the press _after_ the semifinal."

"Oh," Xavi said weakly. "Well, I have a feeling that he'll have plenty of company after tonight."

Nando cocked his head curiously. "What do you mean? Does this have something to do with whatever's going on between you and Iker?"

"Um," Xavi hedged. "I, um, I may have said some things to Canal+ that I shouldn't have."

"And that surprised him?" Xavi studied Nando's face closely, but had to conclude that the question was innocent. He had never understood how a man as seemingly sweet and naive as Torres had made it this far in the cutthroat world of professional football.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah, in this case, I think it really did."

"So you apologize," Nando shrugged. "Iker loves you, he'll get over it."

Something in the emphasis he'd placed on his words caught Xavi's attention. Was it possible that _El Niño_ was not quite so innocent after all?

"I'm sure you're right, it's no big deal," Xavi said hastily. "Our friendship has survived worse," he added, as much to reassure himself as to distract Torres.

Nando looked at him intently. "Do you like Sara?" he asked, apparently apropos of nothing.

Xavi nearly sputtered. "Yes, of course," he said. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I dunno," Nando said, glancing away. "I guess I just thought... it must be hard."

Something in the soft, sympathetic way in which he said it made Xavi's breath catch in his throat. He flushed with embarrassment. Surely two years should have been enough. He shouldn't still feel... he shouldn't still feel like _this_ , like iron bands were clamping down around his heart, making his vision blur. "It is," he croaked. "I... I can't..."

"Xavi, shit, are you okay?" He felt rather than saw Nando's slender hands pushing him down onto the bed. "Stay right here. I'm going to get you some water." Xavi obediently lay there and looked blindly up at the ceiling, struggling to deepen his breaths, to ease the awful tightness in his chest. The sound of running water, then footsteps, and there was Nando's hand cupping the back of his head, a cool, wet glass touching his lips. He sipped slowly, the dizziness receding as his body relaxed.

After a little while, Nando took the glass away and set it on the table, used his free hand to stroke Xavi's hair soothingly. "Better?"

"Yeah," Xavi murmured, twisting his neck to look up at him. The bedside light behind Nando's blond head created such an appropriate halo effect that he had to fight the urge to giggle.

"Good," Nando said, smiling faintly, then leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

It was gentle but decisive, Nando's warm hands tilting his jaw and supporting his head, pulling him forward into the kiss. Iker's kisses had always been fierce, his pale face rough with five-o'-clock shadow by noon, his hands possessive and insistent. Nando's skin was smooth and golden and smelled like cinnamon, and his mouth was pliant and sweet.

Even as it occurred to Xavi that he didn't really know this man at all, apparently even less than he'd thought he had, in fact, he found himself kissing back, reaching up to slip his hand under Nando's sweater, to run his fingertips over the soft cotton t-shirt and the hard abdominal muscles beneath. The other man sighed into his mouth, then suddenly pulled away and lowered Xavi's head to the pillow.

"Wait, what-" Xavi began to protest, but Nando silenced him by swinging his left leg over, straddling his hips. He gazed down at Xavi, his fingers drifting slowly from button to button until the striped sweater was hanging loose; a couple of graceful shrugs and it had been tossed to the floor. Xavi reached for the hem of his t-shirt, and Nando obligingly crossed his arms in front of himself and tugged it over his head, six-pack rippling.

Up close, his body was even more beautiful than Xavi recalled from the occasional locker room glimpse. "Really not fat at all," he said without thinking, and Nando started, then smiled. Xavi felt a sudden irresistible urge to sit up and count the beauty marks on his ridged belly with his tongue. As he worked his way down, pressing a kiss here, circling a spot there, the other man peeled his jersey carefully up over his torso and off, then ran his hands up his back and into his hair, massaging his scalp with his fingernails until Xavi moaned.

"Lie back," Nando commanded quietly. "How are you feeling? Are you up for this?"

"Oh, I'm up," Xavi assured him. "I'm suddenly very... up."

Nando laughed a little, flashing white teeth. "Fantastic." He unzipped his slacks and briefly braced his feet on the floor to slide out of them, but left his boxers on as he bent to undo Xavi's belt.

When Nando's lips closed around his cock, his hips bucked violently up off the mattress, and his gasp was embarrassingly loud. But this only appeared to spur on the striker's efforts, Nando humming encouragement deep in his throat as he worked skillfully on Xavi with hands and tongue and just the barest scrape of teeth.

It could not have been more than a minute before Xavi was utterly overwhelmed. "Oh God," he groaned, straining upward as he tangled his fingers in Torres' stiff bleached hair, "I'm going to-" His eyes squeezed shut as he shuddered and spent, Nando moaning and rocking right along with him. A wave of well-being coursed through his body, leaving a warm glow that spread from his center and suffused even the tips of his fingers and toes.

Nando crawled up alongside him, smiling, and left a moist kiss on the point of his shoulder. He was covered by a fine sheen of sweat that softened the angles of his jaw, his collarbones, the sharp edges of his hips.

"Sorry about that," Xavi said with an apologetic grimace. "It's, um. Been a long time."

"I figured," Nando answered matter-of factly.

Xavi frowned, closing his eyes. "This better not have been pity sex."

Nando laughed. "Are you kidding? I've been waiting for this opportunity for years."

Xavi's eyes opened involuntarily in surprise. "Really?"

"Really," Nando confirmed, propping his head on his hand. He was smiling, but his eyes told Xavi that he was serious. "I've always thought you were hot. But Iker..."

"Yeah," Xavi said. "Iker." Trying to change the subject, he commented, "By the way, blond is a good look on you."

"You should try it sometime," Nando said, and then he winked. "Chicks dig it."

The irrelevance of this statement to either of them, admittedly for very different reasons, struck Xavi as the funniest thing he'd heard in a long time. Nando laughed along with him, his hand pressed to Xavi's flat belly as it bounced up and down.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him and he stopped, chastened. "Shit. I'm such an asshole. You haven't even-"

"I have," Nando interrupted quietly. He shifted his hips to show Xavi the damp front of his boxers.

 _"What?"_ Xavi found this more than a little disturbing. "But I... I barely even touched you."

"I told you," Nando said, "I've always thought that you were hot. And it doesn't take much. Guess you could say I'm a cheap date."

"That's amazing," Xavi said honestly. "You're amazing." They stared at each other for a few seconds, shy grins on their faces, before Xavi thought to look at his watch. _Shit._

"Listen, I'd better go before Mata comes back," he said. "But..." _You were great? I really needed this?_ He settled for, "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Nando said. He seemed sincere, and just this side of self-satisfied.

Xavi pecked him on the cheek, dressed in silence while Nando watched, tiptoed down the hall, and then opened and closed the door to his hotel room as quietly as humanly possible.

"Where have you been?" Iker's voice ghosted up out of the darkness.

"Talking to Torres," Xavi muttered, suddenly irritated to find his roommate awake. He headed straight for the shower, banging the door behind him.

Iker's disembodied voice followed him faintly. "You really think I can't tell that you've just had sex?"

"None of your goddamned business," Xavi snapped, gut immediately starting to churn with irrational guilt, and turned on the water as hot as it would go.

When he re-emerged, skin scraped raw and still steaming slightly, Iker was lying with his back to the door, pretending to be asleep. Xavi tossed and turned half the night, getting tangled up in the sheets, but Iker never moved, his unyielding back facing Xavi in mute accusation.

He was already gone when Xavi woke up, heart pounding, from a dream in which he was taking penalty kicks over and over, and a stony-faced Iker was blocking all of his shots.

*

By the time they gathered for their team photos the next morning, word of the Canal+ preview had evidently spread. He knew that it was bad when he wasn't teased or mocked or even chastised. Instead, he was getting the silent treatment, even from Torres, although he at least had the grace to look apologetic about it. To a man, his teammates simply stared through him, acting like he wasn't even there at all. At last the various factions of the Selección seemed to be united with one heart. United, that is, against him.

The one exception was Geri, who sprinted in late to mocking applause; he laid his hand on Xavi's shoulder as he passed by on his way to the back row. It figured; not only was the sunny-tempered defender not a man to hold a grudge, he would also be inclined to be sympathetic, having gotten in his own share of trouble for imprudent remarks to the media, among other things. Either that, or he he'd spent the evening skyping Shakira and hadn't actually heard about the PR debacle; Xavi had no way of knowing.

But that was all. None of his other teammates smiled at him, spoke to him, even made eye contact with him. He'd expected to stand next to his co-captains and the coach for the photos, but Xabi, Iker, and even Del Bosque pretended not to notice when he walked over and waited for them to offer him a space. Instead, he found himself exiled to the other side, stuck between the assistant coach and one of the media liaisons. Knowing that the cameras were on him, Xavi summoned a smile and tried to act as if nothing whatsoever were wrong.

But as soon as the shoot was over, he strode away from the rest of the group, cheeks burning, rather than linger to make his pariah status even more obvious than it had to be.

*

For the rest of the day, no one spoke to Xavi unless strictly necessary, and even Geri avoided his eyes. He ate his meals alone since tables miraculously emptied the moment he set down his tray. Even his seatmates on the plane to Gdansk spoke over his head (granted, not such a difficult thing for Fernando Llorente and Busi to do).

He and Iker each claimed a bed in their hotel room in Gniewino without a word. Iker, who had never needed as much sleep as a normal human being, played cards in Pepe's room until long after Xavi had gone to bed, and even though he tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, Xavi was asleep before his roommate returned.

In the middle of the night, Xavi dragged himself out of vaguely troubling dreams and got up to go to the bathroom. The face in the mirror was drawn, with dark bags under desperate-looking eyes. On impulse, he walked around to Iker's bed and stood beside it, staring down at his softly snoring friend. The desire to crawl between the sheets and husk an apology into Iker's ear was almost overwhelming, although he didn't even know if it should be for the interview or Torres or both or neither. He settled for leaning down and brushing a kiss to Iker's forehead before padding sadly back to his own bed.

When he opened his eyes to full sunlight streaming between the curtains, Iker was already gone.

*


	2. Finding Fault

David Villa called just as he was walking out of the bathroom, toweling his hair.

_"Qué tal, tio?"_ Xavi asked, tucking his cell phone against his shoulder while he wiped between his toes.

"Apologize." His friend's usually playful tone was grim.

"Excuse me?"

"You said some dumbass stuff on tv, Iker's justifiably pissed about that and apparently something else that I don't even want to know about, and you need to apologize."

"Iker told you?" Xavi felt himself flushing with anger.

"He didn't have to, I just know." He could practically hear the eye roll.

"Was it Pepe? It was, wasn't it?"

"Xavi, how long have we known each other?" David demanded.

"Too long, apparently."

"Long enough for me to know that you opened your mouth without thinking, and then went off and did something stupid when Iker called you on it because you were too damned stubborn to admit that you were wrong."

"I'm hanging up now," Xavi told him.

"Okay," David said, "but I'm right and you know it."

As he was shrugging into his t-shirt, the phone rang again; this time it was Puyi.

"Just tell me one thing," Xavi said, sinking down on the bed on top of his damp towel, "is David standing next to you right now?"

"What? Why would he be?"

"Fine," Xavi sighed. "What is it?"

"Remember what Pep taught us. You do not tell other people how to have class, to give respect. You show them."

"Pep's gone," Xavi retorted, the bitterness in his own voice surprising him. "And the way he sprang his departure on us at the end of the season, that was real classy. I felt very _respected_."

"Pep wasn't perfect." Puyi's voice had softened. "That doesn't make him wrong."

"Puyi..." Xavi said, taking a deep breath. "I don't even... everything's all fucked up here. You and David helped keep us... _balanced_ somehow. There's so much bullshit bleeding over from the season, the _merengues_ are picking fights with us right and left-"

"So you decided that the best way to repair relations was to go on national television and accuse them of being bad sports." Puyi paused, pretending to ponder, before drawling, "Unorthodox..."

"...yet still stupid," Xavi finished for him. "All right. I get it."

"Xavi," his friend declared, "as much as David and I would like to be there, we have complete faith that you can do this without us. But the biggest problem for the national teams is never talent, it's unity. Your most important task now is to pull everyone together."

"So... not impressed by my efforts so far, huh?"

There was a meaningful beat. "Not so much," Puyi confirmed.

"I'll do better," Xavi said. He felt lighter already, clearer, more focused. "I promise."

Puyi answered firmly, "I know you will."

"Listen, thanks for calling," Xavi told him. "I'd better go, I have an apology to rehearse."

"Okay," Puyi agreed, then murmured something Xavi couldn't quite catch. "Oh, and David says bye, too."

Xavi blinked down at the phone. "Bastards," he said in admiration.

*

As soon as the hotel room door closed behind them, Iker's arms enveloped Xavi in a hard hug. "I'm really proud of you," he murmured into Xavi's neck.

"Only doing my job, Capi," Xavi responded, discomfited by the praise but willing to enjoy the feel of Iker's solid body pressed against his with whatever excuse was at hand. They were both damp from post-practice showers, and Iker still smelled of soap and his familiar mild shampoo. He breathed in deeply, pushing against Iker's belly, exhaling across his collarbone.

At last Iker pulled away, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Seriously, Xavi. I think that this will make a big difference. And I've been talking to all of the Madrid players about the importance of putting our rivalries aside. I'm having breakfast with Sergio tomorrow."

"Better use small words," Xavi said without thinking, already missing the feel of Iker's warmth on his skin.

"I wish you were kidding," Iker sighed.

"And what's up with his hair, anyway?"

"Maybe it was shorn in sacrifice to the football gods," Iker suggested.

"He looks like Ice Man from Top Gun. Worse, I almost mistook him for Geri yesterday."

Iker raised his eyebrows. "If we're lucky, he'll imitate Geri's fashion sense and Geri will imitate his attitude on the pitch... and not the other way around."

"Can't argue with that," Xavi agreed with feeling. The previous season had seen way too many missteps from Barcelona's defense.

"Anyway," Iker said, "I was hoping that you would do the same. Speak to the Barça boys, ask them to be a little less... clique-ish."

Xavi rolled his eyes. "What are we, in junior high?"

"Sometimes I wonder."

*

Everything was better after that. There were no more ugly showdowns between _blancos_ and _blaugranas_. Torres perked up in practices, and the uneasy whispers about Del Bosque's limited options for strikers stopped. Xavi felt comfortable around Iker again, joked around without worrying about setting him off, and was much less tormented by the insane desire to touch him whenever they were in the same room. They did a little promotional interview together ahead of the Italy game, competing to see who was the biggest football nerd, and it was just like old times, teasing each other affectionately in front of the cameras. Xavi allowed himself to hope that they might pull the team together and triumph at this tournament after all.

That was before Italy crushed their hopes of getting cleanly out of the group stage.

It was the grass, it was always the grass: too lumpy, too dry, a pitch that made for slow passes and quick tempers. The ball bumped and swerved, was blocked or stolen. Under these conditions, the congested midfield wasn't doing Spain any favors. At times, even Xavi would have given his right arm for a striker able to sprint ahead of the pack. Although no longer at each other's throats, Piqué and Ramos had not quite mastered the coordination they needed to deny the other team chances, and it was only through divine intervention by Iker that Thiago Motta's header didn't put Italy up one before halftime.

In the dressing room, little David Silva looked exhausted already; Xavi put a hand on his shoulder to steady him and gave Del Bosque a significant nod. Changes needed to be made. Lucky for them, Balotelli was clearly having an off day, but it seemed like only a matter of time before Italy broke through their defense and scored, and they had to have an answer ready.

Sure enough, although Ramos managed to frustrate Balotelli, his replacement Di Natale grabbed a pass from Pirlo, drew Iker out, and lobbed the ball right past him for the opening goal. But not too much later, Cesc repaid Del Bosque's faith by finishing a lovely play by Andrés and David with a single sure touch that bulleted into the back of the net.

David came off then, replaced by Torres, who had looked distinctly disappointed not to be included in the starting line-up. It wasn't long before he broke free and went one on one with the keeper, but to Xavi's horror, he appeared to lose confidence and held on to the ball for too long, allowing Buffon to jog up and nab it neatly away from him. Out-dribbled by a keeper, what could be more embarrassing? Xavi signaled to Torres, set him up with a rapid-fire tiqui-taca duet in the last few minutes, but it was not to be; the striker's shot flew high, and the match ended 1-1.

Afterwards the mood was mixed. Naturally Cesc was elated, but the central defense was in for a bit of bellowing from Iker and a fair share of good-natured ribbing by the rest of their teammates, and while he tried to put a brave face on it, Torres was clearly crestfallen by his failure to demonstrate that he had deserved to start instead.

Xavi was disappointed in his own performance as well; he knew that he had not been at his best, and no amount of grousing about the grass would change the fact that the morning papers would be singing Andrés' praises and not his. Still, for the first official match after Barça's belated arrival, the result wasn't bad. Surely Italy was the toughest team they would face in their group, and experience had taught him that Spain might be a slow starter but could be counted upon to finish in style.

*

Three days later, Xavi ran into Torres in the hallway outside his hotel room - almost literally, as Torres had his head down and Xavi had been in a hurry to join the rest of their teammates in the rec room. They just missed colliding, caught each other by the elbows. Torres tried to smile to show that no offense had been taken, but Xavi had sensed the tension in his touch, could see the anxiety in his eyes.

_"Qué te pasa, Niño?"_ he asked, holding onto Torres and squeezing his arm encouragingly.

Torres shook his head, lips tight, but Xavi persisted. "Something's wrong. Come back to the room and we can talk, Iker's out playing _pocha_." The other man didn't answer, although he allowed Xavi to take him back to his hotel room and settle him on the bed by his side. Then he just sat there, staring down at the slender fingers twisting together in his lap, until Xavi put out his hand and covered them.

"Xavi," he said then, looking up, "I don't think that I've ever seen you nervous before a match, not once."

_Oh._ Xavi sensed that he would have to tread carefully here. "I used to be, of course I was," he said slowly.

"But...?"

"But ever since I became successful, with Spain, with Barcelona... no," he admitted. "I wanted to play. I always want to play."

Torres dredged up a deep sigh, caught the back of Xavi's hand between his thumbs. "I don't know what's the matter with me. It's been like this all season... no, even longer than that. Already at the World Cup I was feeling it. I can't help it, I just keep picturing all of the ways in which I could make a total fool of myself, and then..."

"Buffon the other day," Xavi finished for him quietly, and Nando nodded, biting his lip.

"Believe me, _fenómeno_ , you've still got it, it's only a question of confidence..."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Nando demanded miserably. "I've tried everything, therapy, hypnosis, meditation..."

"Have you tried sex?" Xavi asked, only half kidding.

"What?" Nando looked a little angry. "If you're going to sit there and mock me-"

Xavi quickly clasped Nando's knee with his free hand, squeezing his reassurance. "No, no. You haven't heard this story? Puyi loves to talk about when he first came to Barça and one of the physios asked him outright whether he had sex before his matches. He was young and shy and didn't know what to say, so he said no. The physio scolded him, said that was a common misconception and that he should always have sex beforehand because he would be more relaxed and would play better. So there you go."

He realized that Nando was staring at him with a look of wonder in his eyes. "Well, that's one pick-up line that no one's ever used on me before."

Xavi was surprised into a bark of laughter. He honestly hadn't been thinking along those lines at all; if anything, he'd been about to suggest that Nando go back to his room and take matters into his own hands. But it suddenly occurred to him that this could be an excellent opportunity for him to reciprocate Nando's earlier generosity... and judging from the way that the other man had just unconsciously licked his lips, an offer would not be met by any objections.

So he responded, "I find that difficult to believe," and, watching Nando's face closely for any hint of hesitation, he tilted his head and leaned in. But his teammate only closed his eyes, long lashes lying delicately above his sharp cheekbones, and Xavi's fluttered shut too at the thrill of their mouths meeting, Torres' tongue tentatively touching his.

Last time Nando had been directing the action; this time Xavi had apparently been placed in charge, a role with which he was far more comfortable. He scooted closer to Nando, pushing more deeply into the kiss, pulled the other man's hands apart and placed them on his knees. At least one of them was trembling, although it was hard to tell which. Swiftly, before he could change his mind, he pivoted on his hip, up from the mattress, placing his feet on the floor so that he was standing between Nando's legs.

This position put them at much the same height, a situation that some men might have found embarrassing but which bothered Xavi not at all. He threaded his fingers through Nando's bleached blond hair and tugged gently, making him moan, then pushed him backwards onto the bed, pulse picking up at the twitch of his teammate's cock against his belly. Nando undid the buttons of his own shirt, eyes glassy with desire, allowing Xavi to push up the wifebeater underneath and trail kisses between his ribs and down to his navel, where he dipped his tongue before dropping lower.

Taking Torres into his mouth was strange; it was the wrong size, the wrong shape, the taste saltier but less bitter. For a few seconds Xavi's body almost rebelled - he found it difficult to breathe, and taking Torres all the way in got him close to gagging. But then Nando keened and shifted his hips, and his legs and torso shone smooth and golden in the lamplight, and the sweet, spicy smell of his skin filled Xavi's nostrils like expensive cologne, and suddenly everything fit; and fairly shortly after that, he swirled his tongue one last time and swallowed as Nando bucked helplessly against the roof of his mouth.

When he crawled back up onto the bed, Nando's eyes were dull with sated desire. "God that was nice," he said languidly. "I should have known... your tongue would be good... for more than languages."

Xavi smiled. "My pleasure," he said, echoing Nando's earlier declaration, and kissed him at the corner of his jaw.

He only realized that he was still fully clothed, shoes and all, when Nando reached out and slid his hand between his thighs, and he felt the answering throb beneath his jeans.

Nando hummed, rolled onto his side and rubbed him more deliberately, his touch gentle yet firm, his palm warm and inviting even through the denim. "Come on out and play," he drawled.

Xavi felt himself blushing. The first time, he'd been so upset, so out of it, that Nando's attentions hadn't bothered him in the slightest. Now he was feeling unaccountably shy at the thought of subjecting himself to the other man's scrutiny. He'd been with Elsa for six years and with Iker for far longer than that, and sex with near-strangers had never appealed to him. On the other hand, Nando seemed considerate, and discreet, and even if Xavi hadn't been looking for this, he told himself that he should just relax and allow himself to be happy that he had found it.

Continuing to palm him with lazy circular strokes, Nando leaned over and whispered into Xavi's ear. "What do you want?"

"I want," Xavi began, and gasped a little as Nando undid the button on his jeans, slipped his hand inside, and squeezed. "I want..."

Nando smiled knowingly at him, pulled back, and reached down to push his pants the rest of the way down, toeing them off at the ankles. He rolled onto his hands and knees, looked back over his shoulder. "Come here," he suggested with a wink.

_"Oh,"_ Xavi breathed, almost overcome by this offer, and then, just as suddenly, he deflated. "I don't have... I mean, I didn't bring..."

"No worries," Nando said easily, rolling back onto his buttocks to regard Xavi. Even now, shrunken, spent, bones liquid and hair disheveled, he was magnificent. Then he cast a mischievous glance at the bedside table. "Maybe Iker?" At Xavi's shrug, he eased the drawer open and peered inside, then fished out a foil-wrapped packet with a triumphant grin.

When Xavi slid into Nando and shut his eyes, the beauty marks on the other man's back inverted into a bright field of stars.

*

Xavi jerked awake to the soft squeak of the hotel door swinging open. He could see Iker's familiar silhouette outlined against the dim light of the hallway, head cocked quizzically as he surveyed the room, apparently sensing something out of place. "Xavi?" he said softly.

Xavi scowled and flung his arm over his eyes. "What time's it?" he mumbled. "We have a match tomorrow."

Iker didn't answer, just let the door click closed behind him and advanced into the room. He pulled off his t-shirt and shed his shorts as he went, so that by the time he got into the bathroom, he was wearing nothing but his briefs. Xavi started to drowse, drifting half in and half out of sleep, as the toilet flushed and Iker ran the water in the sink.

It was when Iker turned on the bedside light and opened the drawer for his kindle than Xavi knew he was in trouble.

"Xavi." Iker's voice was curt, clipped. "Was Torres here tonight?"

"You're ruining my afterglow," Xavi complained. He comprehended that this might be considered cruel, especially if Iker were not as immune to his charms as he apparently would like him to believe, but he still felt slightly sick from being dragged back out of sleep and just couldn't bring himself to care.

Iker sighed loudly and sat down on the side of Xavi's bed.

"For God's sake, be careful. It's not worth risking Nando's marriage and family just to... make me jealous, or whatever the fuck you're trying to do."

_"Egocéntrico,"_ Xavi retorted, sitting up suddenly, sincerely insulted that his old friend would even consider him capable of motives that low. "What makes you think this has anything to do with you?"

"So you admit it," Iker said, looking more sad than triumphant to have had his suspicions confirmed.

"You don't have anything to say about who I sleep with anymore," Xavi snapped, and was surprised to realize that he was right.

"Is that what this is about?" Iker asked. His voice was quiet and full of dread.

"No, and I still can't even believe that you... No."

"Fine," Iker said, sounding skeptical. "But I'm telling you, this is a terrible idea. Think about what would happen if the rest of the team found out."

"I didn't hear you moaning about possible effects on team morale when you were in his position," Xavi retorted. "Although, come to think of it, I do remember quite a lot of moaning in general..."

"Xavi, enough already. I'm serious. Think of his wife. His kids."

Xavi suddenly wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, possibly until after the tournament was over. "How am _I_ suddenly responsible for Nando's fidelity? I didn't get him drunk and seduce him, and I'll bet you anything that I wasn't the first. Maybe you should tell _him_ to think of his wife and kids."

"Maybe I will," Iker said grimly.

"And get off my bed," Xavi grumbled, turning over on his side and pulling the pillow half over his head.

After an interminable pause, during which Iker's harsh breaths echoed irregularly in the room, he felt the mattress rebound as the other man finally abandoned him.

*

The next morning, Torres was on fire, full of energy and good humor and such supreme self-confidence that no one was surprised when Del Bosque decided to start him as a striker against Ireland. And sure enough, not even five minutes had elapsed before he picked up a loose ball, dribbled it across the box, and sent it up into the back of the net. David Silva scored a second goal just before the whistle blew, making the halftime dressing room a much more pleasant place than it had been in their previous match.

Coming back onto the pitch with a comfortable lead, the _Selección_ delighted in their ability to dominate possession. Xavi even got off a good shot himself, although the keeper managed to make an impressive save. Then David slotted the ball through for Torres, who again made the most of his opportunity to shoot it home. When Xavi threw his arms around the striker to celebrate, he leaned close and confided, "I owe you one."

Torres left the field glowing when Del Bosque sent Cesc on in his place. Not to be outdone, Cesc almost immediately collected the ball from a corner kick and scored a fourth goal from a seemingly impossible angle; his celebration had less of a joyful and more of a "Take that!" quality than Xavi could remember seeing from him. The constant competition among the candidate forwards was becoming somewhat stressful for Xavi to watch, especially now that Cesc played for his club and he and Nando were... whatever it was that they were. He reminded himself of how lucky he was, maestro of the midfield, trusted to start in every game.

For their part, the Irish were left broken but unbowed. In the final moments of the match, the stadium swayed along to a solemn rendition of "The Fields of Athenry," a moving and almost magical moment that recalled the amazingly supportive Camp Nou crowd at the end of Barcelona's latest Champions League effort. Not a few of the players from both teams had tears in their eyes by the time the referee signaled the end of the match.

*

Decades of experience had bestowed on Del Bosque excellent judgment regarding the best time to tighten or release the reins, and the players were dismissed that evening with encouragement to celebrate as they saw fit and then show up - hopefully not too hungover - for recovery and training the next afternoon.

The enormous rec room provided for the _Selección_ had been equipped with everything that two dozen bored and ultracompetitive twenty-something men could desire: foosball, table tennis, billiards, a huge flatscreen tv with several different game consoles. An intricate model railway, requested specifically by Andrés, looped its way around a significant fraction of the room. But to celebrate their victory, the members of the _Selección_ wanted to do something special.

A couple of the boys from lower profile teams were all in favor of hitting the nearest dance club, but Xavi looked from Iker to Andrés to Pepe to Piqué and shook his head. "I really don't think we can take the entire _Selección_ to a public place and not be noticed," he pointed out.

"Admit it, you're just getting too old for this shit," Cesc told him, grinning.

_"No pasa nada,"_ Pepe proclaimed. "If we can't go to the party, we bring the party here." True to his word, he spent the rest of the night mixing stiff drinks while Ramos minded the music. There was dancing and singing, and almost everyone made sure to stop by to touch Torres and tell him what a _partidazo_ he'd had.

Xavi was physically affectionate even sober, and too small to withstand more than a couple of Pepe's concoctions, so it wasn't too long before he found himself with his arm around Torres' waist, the taller man's arm draped over his shoulders. "A toast!" he called hoarsely, raising his half-empty glass. "To _El Niño_ , man of the match!"

_"Come back to Liverpool, Niño!"_ Pepe implored, thumping down on his knees and clasping his hands theatrically.

"Please no anthem," Geri groaned.

Pepe immediately got back up, his face lighting up in a huge grin, and began bellowing, _"When you walk... through a storm..."_

Xabi joined in almost at once, and soon, with an apologetic glance at Juan Mata, Torres did too. Xavi smiled, swaying along with him, enjoying the feel of Nando's firm flesh under his forearm, and had just started singing along as well when someone grabbed the glass out of his hand and firmly detached him from Torres. It was Iker.

"The fuck?"

"I'm cutting you off," Iker said. His voice sounded jovial, but the smile on his face didn't reach his eyes. "No one needs to hear that."

None of their teammates seemed to have noticed except for Nando, who was looking at Iker with narrowed eyes. Xavi pushed Iker away and straightened his shirt with great dignity. "I'm calling it a night," he announced to the room at large with a wave. "Don't have too much fun without me."

_"Bona nit, vell,"_ Cesc called, nudging Geri in the ribs with his elbow. Xavi good-naturedly flipped him the bird on his way out.

He was only halfway back to their hotel room when Iker caught up with him. "Was that really your idea of being discreet?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Xavi said bluntly. His insides were warm and fizzy, and he was having trouble keeping to a straight line, but he felt sure that his judgment was as acute as ever. "It was no big deal until you tried to make it one."

"Some of them are going to suspect," Iker argued, fumbling for his key. It occurred to Xavi that he hadn't been the only recipient of Pepe's generosity. In the lighted hallway, Iker's face was flushed, his step unsteady.

"Suspect? I was celebrating with our teammate. Stop the presses!" Xavi pushed past Iker and into their room.

"You were making a fool of yourself." Iker slammed the door shut.

" _San Iker_ to the rescue," Xavi gibed, putting his hands on his hips. "What is this really about? Team morale? Torres' family? Or is it just that you can't stand to see me with anyone else, even after two years?"

Iker threw his arms up in exasperation. "This is the thanks I get! You know, José told me that I needed to stop speaking to you. I'm beginning to wonder whether there wasn't a little bit of sense in that after all."

Xavi, mouth already open in rebuttal, suddenly realized what Iker had just said and shut it again as a lump rose in his throat. He'd heard the rumors - everyone had - of problems in the Real Madrid dressing room, confrontations between Iker and Mourinho, accusations that Iker was the mole who'd leaked stories of dissent to the press. But until this moment, he had never suspected that his own friendship with Iker might be a significant factor in their friction.

Iker was glaring at him, face red, chest heaving, waiting for a response, but Xavi couldn't get the words out for a while. At last he swallowed and husked, "Mourinho ordered you to stop speaking to me?"

Iker caught the change in his tone, calmed down immediately, stepped a little closer. "Yeah," he said. "He announced in front of the whole team after the _clásico_ that fraternizing with the enemy was treason and would not be taken lightly. Everyone in the room knew that he was talking about us."

"Huh." Xavi reflected silently that not only had Pep never given him a similar ultimatum, he would have been half amused, half appalled, at the very suggestion. "And what did you say?"

"I told him he could go fuck himself," Iker replied with a shrug.

The idea of his refined friend reacting in that way was so ridiculous that Xavi burst out laughing, and when he caught Iker's eye, the other man cracked up too. And then they simply couldn't stop. They bellowed helplessly, tears streaming down their faces, Xavi occasionally pausing just long enough to imitate Iker's voice saying, " _Disculpe, Míster_ , please go fuck yourself," until they were so weak from laughter that they were holding onto each other to keep from falling down.

At last Xavi hugged Iker close, then planted a platonic kiss on his shiny pink cheek. "I do not believe for a second that you said that, but thanks anyway for the thought."

"I may not have used those exact words," Iker admitted, squeezing him back, then swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "But I did tell him privately that it was none of his business who we talked to, and that if he didn't like it, he could find a goalkeeper who wouldn't be playing with half the Barcelona squad in the _Selección_ come June."

"Oh sure," Xavi complained, miming being stabbed through the heart, "that's all I am to you, a little midfield magic."

"Well, you're definitely little," Iker grinned. "As for the magic..." He stuck his fingers in the waistband of Xavi's jeans and tugged him closer, his lopsided smile starting a warm, fluttery glow in Xavi's gut... then suddenly froze, looking scared sober, and pulled his hand back as if he had been stung. "Oh. Uh, shit. Sorry. I'm sorry."

"No worries," Xavi managed to say. He struggled to get his breathing back under control, turning away from Iker so that the other man wouldn't see the evidence of his traitorous body's response. Still not looking at Iker, he joked, "If Mourinho is already so mad about us talking, no telling what he'd do if he found out I'd actually scored in your goal."

Iker wasn't laughing. "Xavi, please," he said - _were those tears in his eyes?_ \- "I didn't mean to - I promised myself I wouldn't-" he stumbled to a halt, radiating guilt and distress.

_Interesting_. Iker looked so upset and confused that Xavi understood that in that moment he could have him - could just take Iker in his arms and drag those defenses down and get him to give in to the longing they'd obviously both been feeling ever since they'd reunited in Gdansk. He could thread his fingers through that silky chestnut hair, trail kisses across those pale, perfect shoulderblades, bury himself in that sweet, familiar heat. He could make Iker forget, if only for a few minutes, that Sara Carbonero even existed.

Caught up in his fantasy, Xavi allowed his hand to drift, to brush back the lock of hair that had fallen onto Iker's forehead. Then he abruptly returned to himself, pulled away, took a step back. He knew that San Iker might eventually forgive his friend, but he would never forgive himself.

Abandoned, Iker stared at him, biting his lower lip like the uncertain teenage boy he had been when they first met so many years ago.

_"No te preocupes, cariño,"_ Xavi said. "It's all right. We're all right." He forced himself to smile and patted Iker awkwardly on the shoulder. The other man swallowed and nodded, still red but obviously intensely relieved.

"Thank you," he said simply, and they both knew exactly what he meant.

"It's nothing," Xavi mumbled, and escaped into the bathroom to take a cold shower.

*

By the time he returned to the room, Xavi had found the clarity and peace of mind that he required. After quietly pulling on a fresh pair of briefs and some trackpants, he padded around to sit down on the edge of Iker's bed. His friend stirred as the mattress sank slightly, then rolled over to squint up at him. "Xavi," he said sleepily. "I'm so-"

Putting a finger to Iker's lips to still them, Xavi said quickly, "It's all right. I've decided to stay away from Torres for the rest of the tournament."

Iker pulled his hand away, held onto it. "No, listen. I was wrong to ride you about it. I chose Sara. You have the right to see whomever you want."

Xavi shook his head. "It's not worth risking our friendship. In fact, I can't think of much that is." He clasped Iker's shoulder with his free hand, and then suddenly they were clinging to each other, breathing unevenly and yet in synchrony. Xavi buried his face in Iker's neck, feeling the blood pulse beneath his cheek.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before Iker released him and burrowed back down in the bed. His face solemn, he lifted the covers in unspoken invitation, and Xavi slid drowsily between the sheets. They drifted off, side by side, to dream of small free birds and falling stars.

*


	3. Extra Time

Xavi slept better than he had since leaving Barcelona, and he woke, refreshed, in the midmorning, without even a hint of a hangover. Iker, of course, was already long gone. He hummed a little as he dressed and brushed his teeth, checked his phone and his email. Torres had been named Carlsberg Man of the Match, he noted. Good, he had every reason to be pleased with his performance.

In the dining room, he took his tray over to sit next to Andrés, the only one of their teammates still - or more likely already - at breakfast.

" _El Niño_ was phenomenal yesterday," his friend observed as he handed over the salt shaker without having to be asked.

"Yeah, wasn't he? He still has the skills. All he needs to do is trust himself." Xavi seasoned his eggs and took a big bite of his toast.

"He mentioned last night that you taught him a new relaxation technique," Andrés said innocently. "Can you show me, too?"

Xavi choked on a mouthful of milk, spluttered, and started coughing. He had to cover his mouth and pound himself on the chest until the spasms stopped. "Sorry," he gasped at last. "And ow. I swallowed wrong."

"You were saying?" Andrés asked.

He took a few more deep breaths and a big sip of juice before answering. "Andreu, you don't have any trouble relaxing before your matches."

"That's true," Andrés agreed, "but I get so nervous when I have to speak in public. Remember how much I was sweating when we filmed that video for Pep?"

Xavi smiled and said sincerely, "Yeah, but... believe me when I say that I really don't think that my technique would work in your particular case."

*

They all knew that the game against Croatia could be tough, and Torres in particular looked more and more stressed as the match approached. Xavi clapped him on the shoulder and said something encouraging whenever he could, but he was careful not to be left alone with him. Occasionally Torres would catch his eye with a questioning look, but he didn't push anything; he seemed to accept that Xavi would approach him if he were interested in another encounter, at least for the time being.

To Cesc's undisguised disappointment, Del Bosque started Torres in his stead, but the striker couldn't seem to score. He headed a corner kick from Xavi high, then attempted a low drive that was saved by the Croatian keeper. Torres became visibly more frustrated as the match progressed, and he wasn't the only one. Changes needed to be made, and Xavi couldn't understand why Del Bosque was delaying. He was tired himself - three tournament games in a row had taken their toll on his Achilles tendon - but he was forcing himself to push through the pain.

In the 73rd minute, the coach finally pulled Torres off for Navas and Silva for Cesc. Their fresh legs changed the whole tempo of the match, and Xavi felt his spirits lifting again. With only two minutes to go, Cesc chipped a perfect pass through to Andrés, who generously nicked it back to Navas beside him for the goal and the win.

Xavi barely had time to celebrate with them before he was called off, limping just a little as he joined his teammates on the bench. Torres' expression was bleak, his lips set in a thin line; Xavi put a sympathetic hand on his knee but sat next to him in silence until the match was over.

*

"Top of the group, cracks!" Cesc crowed as they straggled into the dressing room. He was elated by his assist-in-all-but-name, and obviously confident that Del Bosque had noticed how effective he'd been in the few minutes of play he'd been given in the last two matches. For his part, Xavi was surprised by the flatness that he felt. It was only natural, he supposed; four years ago, Spain had been elated to reach the Euro quarterfinals, but now, with that tournament as well as the World Cup trophy under their belts, advancing past the group stage had become business as usual.

*

Torres was noticeably subdued and withdrawn at practice the next day, and in the evening, he wasn't in the rec room with the others. Xavi was concerned enough to ask Juan Mata how he was doing.

His Chelsea teammate paused before responding, maybe just because he still hadn't fully forgiven Xavi for his post-match remarks, but finally confided, "I left him in our room. He's been pretty down since last night." He stared over Xavi's shoulder for a moment, then looked him in the face. "Maybe you could talk to him? He seemed better after he went to see you and Iker the other night." Mata's tone was skeptical, as if he couldn't quite understand why talking to Xavi might have that effect on anyone.

"Sure, okay," Xavi agreed. He could hardly say, _No, sorry, because if I go to see him by myself, we'll have to have a supremely awkward talk about why I can no longer have sex with him._

The first time Xavi knocked, there was no response. _"Niño?"_ he called, and rapped harder. "It's Xavi." He could just make out a stir and then rapid footsteps.

Torres opened the door, smiling despite the shadows under his eyes. "I wasn't expecting you to... come on in!" He held the door open as Xavi hesitated, then walked past him and pulled out a chair to take a seat at the table.

"So... how have you been?" Torres asked.

"Busy," Xavi began, scratching the side of his neck. "Um... Mata thought that it might help if you had someone to talk to." He felt guilty even as the words left his mouth; he owed it to Torres to be straight with him, but it was obviously going to be even harder than he'd expected.

Torres' eyes dimmed a little, although he didn't stop smiling. "Is that why you came, to talk?" He advanced on Xavi, took him by the hand, and gazed down at him expectantly, tilting his head.

Xavi was forced to look away, hating himself a little. "Nando, I'm here about your game yesterday, not..." He stood suddenly and stepped away from the other man, who released his fingers, looking a bit stunned.

"Oh," Torres said. When Xavi opened his mouth, he held up his hand. "It's okay, you don't have to explain."

Xavi made the attempt anyway. "It's not that I don't want to-"

"Let me guess. Iker."

He wasn't going to lie. "I'm sorry, I really am. You're a good guy and... No one has made me feel like that in a long time."

"Same here," Torres said simply. They stood there for a while, looking at each other.

"Okay," Xavi said finally. "Well, I guess I should go."

"And the match?" Torres asked. "That is what you wanted to see me about, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Listen, don't brood about it too much, okay? Anyone can have an off day. You're good, really good, you proved that against Ireland. All you need to do is relax."

"Relax," Torres repeated ruefully. "Yeah. Thanks."

Halfway to the door, Xavi had a thought and turned back around. "You know, the feather isn't really magic." When Torres just looked at him blankly, he explained, "Sex with someone else would probably work just as well."

Torres flushed. "You think that's all this is about for me? I'm not just trying to... to _use_ you so that Del Bosque lets me start!"

"Sorry, sorry," Xavi said quickly, wondering how someone who meant well could possibly manage to put his foot in his mouth so often.

"I don't sleep with just anybody, you know," Torres added. He looked as angry as Xavi had ever seen him.

Xavi walked back to him, put an apologetic hand on his arm. "I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'm just saying... your wife is here, and-"

"Please leave my wife out of this," Torres interrupted. He sounded sad now, and tired. After a pause, he reached for Xavi's hand, but instead of removing it, he threaded their fingers together. "We haven't been... This season has been really stressful for us."

 _No shit,_ Xavi didn't say. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "But... maybe on the team... I mean, I can't help thinking that there must have been someone else before."

Torres took a deep breath, exhaled, and then rewarded him with a wry smile. "If I told you, how could you be sure that you could trust me with this?"

"There is no this," Xavi said. He gently untangled their hands and turned away. "I'm sorry."

*

In the five days leading up to the quarterfinal against France, Torres' performances at their practice sessions became increasingly erratic. Del Bosque and his assistant coach conferred about the striker situation frequently, sometimes bringing Iker and Xavi in for their input. The general consensus was that Torres was still the best striker on the team when he was having a good day, but there was no guarantee that they would get one; the coaches couldn't figure out where his occasional flashes of brilliance came from, and Xavi certainly wasn't about to shed any light on the subject.

So Cesc started instead of Torres, to no one's great surprise. In the first twenty minutes Andrés took advantage of leftback Jordi Alba's velocity to assist Xabi Alonso in a lovely header down past keeper Lloris. After that though, things seemed to stall; despite dominating possession, the Spaniards seemed unable to finish again and assure their victory. Disquieted, Del Bosque replaced his forwards for the last thirty minutes, Cesc looking downcast, Silva merely tired. But Torres and Pedro had no better luck. It was Xabi Alonso again who scored the second goal with a penalty kick in extra time and took them solidly into the semifinals.

*

The announcement of Real Betis defender Miki Roqué's death after over a year of treatment for pelvic cancer didn't come as a shock, but it certainly cast a pall over the _Selección's_ mood the next morning. As soon as they heard the news, Xavi and Iker called Puyol, who had been paying for Miki's medical expenses since the previous spring. Puyi was sad but philosophical, clearly feeling that his friend had fought hard but had already suffered enough. He responded gratefully to Iker's promise that the entire team would wear black armbands in their next match in tribute to Miki.

On a more positive note, Puyi congratulated both of them on pulling the team together so successfully. Apparently David Villa had told him that Sergio Ramos was posting photos of himself bowling with _blaugranas_.

"How did he even know that?" Xavi asked, half amused, half appalled.

"He follows him on Twitter," Puyi said matter-of-factly. "You would know too if you weren't such a Luddite."

"I am not a... whatever you just called me, I just value my privacy! Anyway, what does David think he's doing, following fucking _Real Madrid_ players?" Beside him, Iker's mouth was twitching in amusement.

"Don't look at me," the defender rumbled. "Just because I'm more discriminating doesn't mean I have any control over what David does. Anyway, my point was that it's a _good_ thing."

"Whatever," Xavi grumbled. "Mourinho will make him take those photos down as soon as he figures it out."

"Don't you think you might be just a little paranoid?" Puyi asked.

"No, actually," Xavi said, glancing at Iker, who had folded his arms and was raising an eyebrow at him. "You just wait and see."

*

In contrast, when Xavi went to Andrés' hotel room to let him know what had happened, he found his midfield partner alone, choked-up and red-eyed and even paler than usual. He offered Andrés a hug at once, feeling somewhat at a loss. "I hadn't realized that you and Miki knew each other that well," he said tentatively.

"We didn't, not really," Andrés gulped. "But hearing about him... it reminded me of Dani."

Contrite, Xavi tightened his embrace. "Of course," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

"I don't know which is worse," Andrés sniffled. "At least Miki's friends and family had time to prepare."

"On the other hand," Xavi said gently, "it was probably quick and relatively painless for Dani."

"For Dani, maybe. Not for the people who love... who loved him."

"I know," Xavi said, wondering whether he really did. "I know."

He sat on the bed with Andrés for almost half an hour, letting him talk about his friendship with Dani Jarque, periodically wondering where the hell Victor was. Not that he minded - actually he felt privileged to be one of the few to whom Andrés would open up - but he felt, however irrationally, like he might be usurping Victor's position in this situation somehow.

It was a relief when the door finally opened and Victor entered with a black look... which quickly shifted to concern and affection as he knelt by the bed to put his arms around both of them.

*

They all sensed that Portugal would be the toughest team they'd faced yet, most because they had played either with or against most of their star players in La Liga. Xavi knew that even Iker was nervous at the prospect of going up against Cristiano, especially with Arbeloa, their weakest defender, on his strong side. And Pepe had been playing an incredibly consistent tournament.

In light of the _Selección_ 's nearly universally lackluster performances against France, everyone was wondering which forwards Del Bosque would decide to start this time. Apparently he had been even less impressed with his usual line-up than he'd let on, because _el Míster_ surprised everyone by starting Negredo instead of Torres or Cesc. It did not seem to be an improvement, in Xavi's opinion, once the match was underway. Negredo was fast, but unlike Cesc, he didn't create chances, he only took them, and not any better than Torres as far as he could tell.

Del Bosque must have agreed, because the striker was the first to be substituted after halftime, giving Cesc another opportunity to prove himself. Not long after, Navas came on for Silva, and still they couldn't score. Even Xavi got desperate enough to try his luck from 25 meters, but he shot straight into the arms of the keeper.

It was really a war of attrition more than anything else, neither side able to gain the upper hand. When it looked virtually certain that they would be going scoreless into extra time, Xavi was signaled off, an excited Pedro taking his place. Once again he joined a despondent Torres on the bench, gulped water, and toweled off the sweat streaming over his forehead.

He could only watch, helpless, while the next thirty minutes of play dragged on. His teammates were getting tired now, and just a momentary lapse of concentration - on the part of Piqué for example - could terminate their hopes for the trophy. Andrés nearly repeated his last-ditch World Cup winning goal, but the shot was blocked by a brilliant save from the Portuguese keeper. In the end, neither side managed to get a goal before the whistle blew.

Now it was all up to psychology, Lady Luck, and San Iker. Xavi watched closely as the coaches and remaining players conferred: Cesc was especially animated, probably insisting that he be allowed to take the last penalty in the hopes of repeating his winning goal from their previous Euro campaign. In fact, he was the only Spanish striker to be included in the line-up at all.

"Sergio Ramos, really?" Xavi murmured sotto voce to Torres.

He was rewarded by a faint smile; Ramos' stratospheric effort in the Champions League semifinal against Bayern Munich had not yet been forgotten.

"Don't worry, we've been practicing," Pepe Reina put in, apparently having overheard them.

 

In fact, it was not Ramos who nearly scuttled the shoot-out but opener Xabi Alonso, whom Xavi would have picked _a priori_ as their most reliable penalty-taker, hands down. He swore and clenched his fists as Xabi trudged away, looking more bemused than crestfallen.

Xavi barely felt his fingernails digging into his palms as Moutinho approached the spot, but he saw the red marks when he opened his hands after Iker's successful save as a sigh of relief went up from the Spanish side.

Andrés was next, sending the keeper the wrong way to slot his shot easily into the net. Iker, on the other hand, guessed Pepe's intentions correctly but was unable to keep his shot from slipping inside the post. Piqué's effort was similar - and far too close for Xavi's comfort - but Nani launched a perfect shot into the top corner, leaving Iker powerless.

With the sides tied 2-2, Ramos stepped up to the spot. "I can't look," Torres groaned, literally his head turning away and pressing his face into Xavi's shoulder. For his part, Xavi patted him on the back while watching with a sort of morbid fascination as the defender did a Pirlo, chipping the ball softly into the center while the keeper dove to one side.

The ensuing cheer evidently convinced Torres that it would be okay for him to peek again, but the sight of Bruno Alves advancing on Iker made him frown. "What, Ronaldo isn't taking the next one?"

"Probably begged Bento to let him take the last one so he could look like the big man when they won," Xavi answered absently, eyes fixed firmly on the Portuguese defender. He was rewarded by the welcome rebound of the ball against the crossbar. 3-2.

Now only Cesc and Ronaldo remained. As Cesc positioned his ball at the penalty spot, Torres grabbed Xavi's hand and held it, and on his other side, Silva did the same. They waited, the entire team holding their collective breaths, as Cesc made his run and fired wide to the bottom left corner.

The ball deflected off the post and spun into the net.

Xavi was immediately on his feet, screaming incoherently, although he couldn't even hear himself over the roar of the crowd, and then Torres was flinging himself into his arms while Silva leaped onto his back. Around them he could barely make out Cesc running back towards his teammates, beaming fit to split his face, while Ronaldo just looked up at the sky and shook his head, no doubt thoroughly disgusted by the injustice of it all.

*

"We have an extra day to prepare compared to Italy or Germany," Del Bosque told them afterwards in the dressing room. "You've all done well. I don't want to see any of you tomorrow. On Friday, once we know whom we're playing, we'll have a double session: physical training and then tactics."

The cheer that went up was heartfelt but somewhat ragged; the eight players who'd been on the pitch the entire time looked utterly exhausted and probably wanted nothing more than showers and early to bed. In addition, Torres' earlier elation had evaporated, and the contrast between the eschewed striker and self-congratulatory Cesc could not have been more stark. Seeing his beautiful but bereft face, the hopeless slump of his shoulders, Xavi felt a complicated mixture of pity, guilt, and desire twisting his gut. If he hadn't promised Iker... but he had, and that was the end of it.

When Xavi got back to their room, Iker was stuffing his toiletries bag and a change of clothes into his backpack. "Hey," Xavi greeted him. "You don't have to leave us. You only let two goals in."

Iker tossed a pillow at his head. "Very funny. Since we've got tomorrow off, I'm spending the night with Sara."

"Oh." Xavi probed experimentally at his feelings as if tonguing the tender spot after a tooth extraction; to his surprise, this news hurt less than he would have expected. "Okay."

Iker zipped his bag, stood looking down at it for a second, then met Xavi's eyes. "So... the room is yours tonight. If you wanted to invite someone over... Torres, or, or anyone..."

Xavi rolled his eyes. "'Or anyone'? Exactly how many lovers do you think I have on this team?"

"I'm just saying." Iker's expression was almost comically earnest. "It's all right with me if you... if you wanted some company tonight."

"I don't understand," Xavi said, frowning. "What changed your mind?" A tiny seed of suspicion implanted in his heart, took root, and began to grow. He leveled a finger at Iker. "You've been talking to Andrés."

Iker began shaking his head, but he couldn't hide the flush that crept its way up his cheeks and into his ears. "You have! This isn't about me needing company. You want me to... to _fix_ him."

"The guy's a nervous wreck," Iker protested. "He could use a friend, someone to talk to. If anything else were to happen, well, that's your business."

"Is that an order, _Capitán_?" Xavi asked icily.

"No, of course not, I-"

"What, are you pimping me out for the good of the nation, now?" Xavi couldn't stop himself from shouting. "I suppose that's what you've learned from Mourinho, to win at any cost! That man would sell his own grandmother into slavery to win a major tournament-"

"Xavi, _no_." Iker stepped closer and clasped him by the shoulders. His eyes were bright. "Listen to me. Sleep with Torres or don't sleep with him, whatever you guys decide you want to do. All I'm saying is that you seem to be good for each other. And you were right. I wasn't ready for you to move on, before, but it's only fair - I have to be, and I _will_ be."

Iker looked so determined that Xavi's throat swelled with pride and sympathy. He wanted very badly to believe him. But the timing of this sudden change of heart still seemed awfully convenient.

"You're sure?" he said finally. "This is not you making sacrifices for the good of the team or some shit like that? San Iker, Secret Martyr of the _Selección_?"

His friend shrugged uncomfortably. "I... I don't think so. But I won't lie to you: I can't say for certain."

Xavi cocked his head, considering, while Iker waited, eyes wide. "Well," he said finally, "if that's the best you can do, I'll take it. And I really have your permission?"

"You've never needed my permission," Iker told him. "But you do have my blessing. If you want it."

"Okay," Xavi whispered, "okay," and he enfolded Iker, warm and solid, in his arms. They stayed like that for a long moment, swaying slightly from side to side. Then, "But I was right about Mourinho, wasn't I?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Iker whispered back.

*

Once Iker had left, Xavi went in search of Torres. Predictably, Pepe had organized a spirited post-match party in the rec room. He hoped that he could get in, corner Torres discreetly, and get out again before anyone else noticed that he was there.

Those hopes were shattered when Pepe bellowed, "XAAAAVIIII!" and lumbered over to hand him a drink that tasted like equal parts pomegranate juice and gasoline. "Loosen up, we're having a limbo contest, and my money's on you."

Xavi had to laugh, watching as poor Llorente bent his lanky form backwards to squeeze under the piece of string held by Juan Mata and Torres. Ramos had everyone else clapping along to a flamenco recording, no doubt by one of his many friends in the music business.

Pepe gave him a push. " _Te toca a tí_ , Xavi, your turn, go!"

With a sigh of surrender, Xavi knocked back his drink, which if anything was even stronger than he had expected, and handed the glass to Pepe. As he approached the line, though, Mata and Torres looked at each other and lowered it by half a meter. "Eh, _tramposos_!" Xavi objected.

"We're not cheating," Mata said with a wink. "Consider it a well-deserved handicap, _bajito_."

He made it under anyway, of course, but as soon as he'd reached the other side and straightened up, Xavi faked a stumble and grabbed onto Torres for support. "Come to my room later," he hissed into his ear. Torres' fingers tightened on Xavi's arms in surprise, but he said nothing, only helped set him on his feet again.

Xavi made a show of brushing himself off amid a chorus of good-natured guffaws. "I'll have what he's having!" Xabi Alonso boomed as he excused himself and left the room again with a weak wave before the strobe lights and disco ball gave him a headache.

*

He went back to his room, waited nervously for Torres to turn up. He wouldn't want him to leave right away, of course, that would be too obvious, but when ten minutes passed and then fifteen, Torres' tardiness started to look less like discretion and more like denial. He began to feel like a right idiot, trapped in his room by himself, waiting for a visitor who might well never come.

Also, once the adrenaline and alcohol had worn off, his body reminded him that he'd played a tough match and there would be a price to pay. He was massaging his calves, digging his thumbs into the sore soleus muscles, when his cell phone rang. He answered immediately without looking to see who it was. _"Sí?"_

"Xavi!" It was David Villa, sounding slightly tipsy. "Congratulations on another final, _cabrón_!"

"Thanks," Xavi said, trying to disguise his disappointment.

Apparently he had been unsuccessful because David snorted. "Don't sound so delighted to hear from me, it might go to my head. And why is it so quiet, you should be celebrating!"

"We are," Xavi answered. "I'm just..."

"What?" David sounded genuinely concerned now, so he took a deep breath.

"I'm tired." _And old, and alone, and uncertain what the future holds..._ "And I feel old."

"You _are_ old," David said solemnly.

"Screw you," Xavi retorted, and David burst out laughing. "I'm serious. I wonder whether they're right. Maybe this is my last major tournament. Maybe I just don't have it anymore."

"Is Torres contagious or something?"

 _"What?"_ Xavi asked, embarrassed by his voice breaking into a startled squeak at the end.

"This lack of self-confidence, it's not like you," David explained, apparently oblivious.

"I'm just being realistic," Xavi replied. "I don't need to read the news to know that I'm too slow, I'm being too cautious. You've seen how Del Bosque keeps subbing me out."

"Hey man," David said easily, "At least you're there." There was no trace of bitterness in his voice, and yet Xavi couldn't repress a sudden stab of remorse at his own insensitivity.

"Yeah," he conceded, "yeah, you're right. And I'm also a self-absorbed asshole. Sorry."

David laughed again. "I've been telling you that for years," he teased.

"It's still hard to believe that you and Puyi aren't playing with us," Xavi told him.

"Yeah, we can see how hard it's been for you... how you keep losing without us there... oh wait."

"It's not that, I know we've adapted, I just mean... I've really missed you guys." And he did. Beyond what they brought to the pitch purely as players, he missed Puyi's class and constant encouragement, David's wit and mercurial moods. They were not necessarily close friends, but they were old ones, comfortable and able to be counted upon.

"Well, hey, you won't have to miss us for much longer," David assured him. "They are flying us in specially for the final."

"Really? That's fantastic!" Xavi hoped that David could hear his broad smile in his voice.

"Yup. So we'll see you in a couple of days. Now quit moping around and go back to the party. And give Pepe a hug for me."

"When I see him," Xavi promised. "And thanks for calling."

"No problem," David replied. "See you soon."

*

After David had hung up, Xavi fidgeted for a while, emptied his drawers to unfold and refold his clothes unnecessarily, then called his family. They were all excited about the win, but of course his brother gave him shit for being alone in his hotel room instead of out celebrating with the team. He tried to explain that he was just really tired, found his voice beginning to break, and begged off, claiming that he thought he might be coming down with something.

He was still staring at the cell phone in his hand when someone knocked softly at the door.

Figuring at this point that Pepe had sent someone to summon him back to the party, Xavi took his time answering. But when he looked through the peephole, he was surprised to see Torres, already starting to turn away.

Xavi yanked the door open so fast that Torres shied like a skittish horse, then looked embarrassed. "Hey! I didn't think that you were coming."

"I'm not sure why I did," Torres told him, his voice quiet and slightly slurred. "I didn't even get to play today, so it's not like you asked me over to talk about my game." He was clearly torn between suspicion and hope, and also not completely sober.

"Sound reasoning," Xavi agreed. He pulled the door open a little wider. "Would you please come in?"

"What for?" Torres asked.

"Because," Xavi answered impatiently, "I can't kiss you while you're standing out there in the hallway."

Torres raised an eyebrow, considered this for a moment, then made his way inside, careful not to brush against Xavi as he passed. Once the door was shut, he folded his arms and frowned. "I think I'm going to have to change your ringtone to that Katy Perry song."

"What?"

"You know, _you're hot and you're cold, you're yes and you're no..._ " Torres said in English in a sing-song voice.

Xavi frowned. "I have a ringtone? You've never even called me."

"It was just a figure of speech." Torres continued to stare at him, caution plainly warring with curiosity. "And Iker?"

"Iker's with Sara for the night," Xavi said. Somehow this wasn't turning out quite as he had expected. His palms were beginning to sweat.

"Thus, the booty call?" Torres' lower lip trembled ever so slightly. "I'm not your Plan B, Xavi."

"Wait - what?"

"And it's probably none of my business, but you shouldn't let Iker jerk you around like this either, hooking up with you one night and then going off to Sara the next-"

Oh. _Oh._ Xavi reached out hurriedly and touched Torres on the arm. "Nando, no, it's not like that. Iker and I never... I mean, we haven't been, not for two years now."

Now Nando looked thoroughly confused. "You're not? But then why..."

"We had to figure some stuff out, that's all. It's okay now. He knows that I was planning to ask you here tonight."

"Oh?" Torres sounded politely disbelieving. "That was... generous of him."

"It was, actually. He's trying, he really is."

Now Nando's eyes narrowed. "This had better not be a pity fuck."

Xavi reached up with his free hand and clasped the corner of Nando's jaw. "The only pity here," he said, "is that we've wasted so much time already." The words sounded unbelievably cheesy to him as soon as they traveled from his brain to his mouth, but Nando didn't seem to mind; he was allowing Xavi to tilt his head, to pull him down until their lips met, soft but sure.

"You've been drinking cava," Xavi commented when they finally broke apart, breathless. His tongue was tingling a little.

"I have a weakness for Catalonian vintages," Torres said, straight-faced, and then tucked his thumbs into Xavi's waistband with a questioning look. Xavi sucked in a breath and nodded, closing his eyes while Nando sank to his knees and clumsily undid his fly. But just as the other man's lips closed around him, his calves began to cramp, and his legs nearly buckled so that he was forced to grab at Nando's shoulders for balance.

"Mmmf... whoa, hey." Torres glanced up at him, concerned.

"Sorry," Xavi muttered, humiliated. "I really am getting to be an old man." He limped over to the bed and sat down, rubbing his legs and wincing.

Torres smiled. "No worries." He straightened up, dusted off his knees, and began matter-of-factly unfastening his own belt. "How about a shower?"

Xavi frowned. "I took one after the match. Are you trying to tell me something?"

Now Nando laughed. "No, no. But..." he took two long steps and sat down next to Xavi, slipping an arm around his waist. "We have all night, don't we? I want to see... and taste... _everything_."

"Oh," Xavi said weakly, the sudden surge in his heart rate making him feel a little dizzy. He allowed Torres to take him by the hand and lead him into the bathroom, wondering whether he was right about what the other man had in mind.

Once inside, Nando dipped his head for an unhurried kiss, his bleached blond hair falling into his eyes. Xavi fumbled with the buttons on Nando's shirt, helped him to pull it off without breaking their connection.

In the tub, Nando soaped him all over, slowly, shielding his face from the spray. His long, lean hands lifted Xavi's arms and slipped into the concavities beneath them, moved in circles on his chest, slid down over his stomach and between his legs. They caressed the length of his cock, by now almost painfully hard; fondled his balls; and moved further, deeper. Xavi gasped and spread his legs, pressing his palms into the walls of the shower stall for balance until Nando had moved on to massaging his inner thighs.

By the time Torres reached his feet, Xavi's calves were cramping again. "My turn," he said, to cover, and knelt down on the cool wet porcelain. Torres was easier to take in this time, maybe because of the angle, and it seemed like only seconds had passed before he was tangling his fingers in Xavi's hair and pulsing, warm and musky, into his mouth. After breathing heavily for a moment, he opened his eyes and smiled at Xavi, then shut off the shower, pulled the sliding door aside, and stepped out.

Xavi was still rock-hard and awaiting reciprocation, but it seemed that Nando had other ideas. He took a towel and dried Xavi off, gently but thoroughly, his eyes appreciative as they followed the flow of the fabric over his shoulders, across his calves, between his legs. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, pressing a kiss to one nipple and then the other.

"And you must be blind," Xavi joked, uncomfortable. Who was Nando trying to kid? He had the build, stature, and coloring of a Greek god, an Apollo, while he, Xavi, was a hirsute, swarthy midget only fit for the midfield.

Nando looked surprised. "I'm serious," he said. "You have this lovely, compact-"

"I think the word you are looking for is _short_ -"

"- _compact_ ," Nando repeated firmly, "muscular body - fan _tas_ tic ass, by the way - and such an incredibly expressive face." He turned away a little, toweling himself off vigorously, then took Xavi by the hand and twined their fingers together. "Come with me." He took the extra towel and grabbed a tube of complimentary hand lotion off the counter on their way back to the bedroom.

Nando pulled the sheet back and spread the towel lengthwise on Xavi's bed. "Lie down on your stomach," he suggested, eyes sparkling, and Xavi complied, the terrycloth dry and pleasantly rough against his damp skin. He heard a squirt, followed by the sound of suction and a wet slap as Nando began rubbing his hands together. Warmth stroked the sides of Xavi's left foot, pressed tenderly into his tendon, then caressed his calf, thumbs digging firmly between the muscles.

Xavi hummed happily, feeling the knots in his legs smooth out under Nando's ministrations. The touch of the other man's strong, slender fingers was soothing and yet at the same time unmistakably erotic; he found himself shifting his hips to help relieve the pressure on his resurgent erection. Nando noticed and rumbled with laughter, paused to plant teasing kisses behind his knees until he trembled.

Then Nando slid his palms up the backs of both of Xavi's thighs simultaneously, pushed up against his buttocks, and parted them.

In all his years with Iker, in Iker, Xavi had never experienced anything so shockingly intimate. He shuddered gratefully at the touch of Torres' tongue, allowed long, low groans to be drawn out of his depths as a tiny flame flickered and then flared, threatening to consume him completely. Liquid heat rushed through his pelvis, seared his skin, alchemized his flesh to molten gold.

Overcome by splendor, Xavi spent with a roar, writhing helplessly against the towel twisted under him.

*

Xavi dragged himself out of dreams of swimming in the center of a vast sea, the waves surrounding and supporting him, but with neither the shore nor another soul in sight.

He blinked sticky eyes, squinting against the rays of a strong dawn. For the first time in two years, he was not waking up alone. There was a body curled around his back, an arm draped over his hip and trailing limp fingers across his belly.

It was not Iker's hand. Too freckled. Too fragile.

Xavi struggled to penetrate the haze of memory and after a moment produced a face, a name. "Nando," he whispered, softly enough that he was surprised when the arm tightened around him and a gravelly voice answered,

"Here." The hand slipped down his stomach and started stroking his cock, already half-hard, causing him to inhale sharply. "Are you okay? You were moving around and moaning in your sleep."

"Just a dream," Xavi murmured. He closed his eyes again and pushed back against Nando's pelvis, smiling when he felt him stir and press blatantly between Xavi's buttocks, his fingers faltering in their caresses. They rocked together slowly in the morning light, Nando not actually penetrating, only sliding back and forth like slippery velvet. Eventually he sped up, his fingers gripping Xavi's arm hard enough to leave faint spots, and came with a shudder and a sort of sighing moan that sent shivers up Xavi's spine. Nando rested his head against Xavi's shoulder for a few seconds, breathing hard, then slipped out from between the sheets and wandered into the bathroom.

After a couple of minutes he came back with a damp washcloth and commenced to clean Xavi off, then slid down in the bed and reached around to close his hand around his cock while kissing the small of his back. Already totally turned on by the sounds of Torres' climax, Xavi thrust against the firm circle of his fingers for at most a few minutes before his hips stuttered and he spilled helplessly over the other man's hand and his own stomach, Nando crooning encouragement.

When he could speak coherently again, he asked for the washcloth and wiped himself off while Nando crawled back up to spoon against him. "Best morning ever," he mumbled, and Nando chuckled, his chest vibrating against Xavi's sweaty skin.

His heartbeat slowed; Nando's breath was warm and slightly bitter on the back of his neck. He stretched, drowsy and sated, and wrapped Nando's arm more firmly around his waist. Iker was sure to be back mid-morning. He could only close his eyes for a minute.

Despite his best intentions, Xavi slept.


	4. Commitment Issues

He woke to cool air on his bare back where the sheet had slipped down. Nando was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his pants, but when Xavi stirred, he stopped and smiled. "Good morning," he said, and leaned in to press a kiss against the side of his neck.

"Morning," Xavi mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "What time's it?"

"Time for me to go," Torres said, rolling away again and zipping up his fly. "Olalla texted me. She wants to spend the free day out with the kids."

"Oh," Xavi said stupidly. He was never at his best when he'd just woken up, and he couldn't seem to think clearly just yet. "Okay. But maybe later-"

"I'd like to. But I can't promise anything."

Xavi frowned then and sat up. "Nando-"

"Yes?" the other man asked patiently, buckling his belt.

"What's going to happen? After the final, I mean?"

"Hopefully a huge party with half of Spain," Nando offered, flashing his teeth.

Xavi should have known better, then, but he pressed on, "Yes, but I meant. With us."

Nando's smile dissolved. His face became very still. "Xavi," he said gently, "when this is over, you'll go back to Barcelona. And I'll go back to London with Olalla and the kids."

He should have expected this, he wasn't a complete idiot surely, and yet his stomach sank as if he had just swallowed an enormous stone. "Back to-" he stammered, and gulped against a sudden surge of sour saliva. "But what if... I mean, maybe..."

Torres reached for his hand, held it clasped to his own heart. "Xavi," he murmured, "I never intended for you to believe anything else."

His head pounding, his vision blurring, Xavi snatched his hand back as if it had been burned. He could barely get the breath to say, "I think that you'd better go." He looked down at the floor, unable to face the sympathy in the striker's eyes, until he heard the door click behind him. Then Xavi curled up into fetal position, clutching his knees, his mind a careful blank.

He had no idea how much time had passed before a loud knock rattled the door. "Xavi? It's Iker." The words floated through Xavi's head for a moment and then drifted out again, unable to connect with anything. "Xavi? Okay, I'm assuming that I can come in."

"Oh _shit_ , you scared me, I didn't think that you were here." Rustling sounds, the door clicking closed, the thump of Iker's duffle bag on the opposite bed. "Xavi? Hey, are you okay?"

He felt the mattress sink as Iker sat down beside him, slowly, careful not to jostle the bed. "How much did you have to drink last night?" Xavi heard Iker sniff, then felt his warm, calloused palm pressed to his forehead, a touch so tender that tears came to his eyes. "Xavi? Seriously, are you okay?"

"Not so much," Xavi managed, and tried to twist away from him, but Iker followed his movements, stroked his unruly hair.

"What the hell happened? Did... did Torres turn you down?"

"Not... exactly." _And could this conversation get any more awkward?_

"Did he-" Iker sucked in a breath as if a thought had just occurred to him, and his grip tightened on the back of Xavi's skull. "Did he... _hurt_ you?" he whispered fiercely, sounding ready to call in the cavalry, the physios, the police, whatever it took.

 _Apparently it could._ Xavi found himself gasping in painful laughter. "God, Iker, _no_. Nothing like that." He dislodged Iker's hand, unfolded, rolled over, and sprawled on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "I am," he told it, "a total idiot."

Iker sighed then, and lay down beside him, throwing a comforting arm across his throat.

"This is your cue," Xavi confessed, "to say, 'I told you so.'"

"Not gonna happen," Iker answered, and pulled him closer, brushing his lips against his cheek. "I'm sorry, Xavi. I really am."

He could feel Iker's heart pounding against his ribcage, and something else pulsing against his hip. Even in his dazed, devastated state, Xavi couldn't help but be vaguely aware that this probably was not the best of ideas. "Iker," he began.

"Too weird?" his friend guessed, pulling back and propping himself on his elbow.

"Very fucking weird," Xavi agreed.

"Okay." Iker swung his legs off the bed. "Listen, it's almost eleven. Have you had breakfast? I could go get some for you. You wouldn't even have to get up."

"I am having an existential crisis here, and you offer me croissants," Xavi said, but his lips were curving in an involuntary smile.

"Life always looks better after you've eaten," Iker reminded him.

"I just can't right now," he confided. "But I'll go down to lunch later."

Iker gave him a measured look. "All right. I'm going to make the rounds. But when I get back, I'd better not find you in a catatonic state." He wrinkled his nose. "And take a shower, will you?"

"That is the stink of despair," Xavi said solemnly.

"It's the stink of something, all right," Iker called back from the hallway, just before closing the door.

Xavi sniffed himself and decided that a shower was probably a pretty good idea. Instead of relaxing him, though, the warm water only reminded him of the time he'd spent with Torres, making his chest tighten and his eyes burn.

He stood a long time with the spray streaming over his face, grateful to be unable to tell for sure whether or not it was mixed with salt. He was mulling things over in his head, his long friendship with Iker, his failed relationship with Elsa, this... connection with Torres that had apparently turned out to be nothing more than a fling. Xavi was beginning to get a glimpse of a pattern that disturbed him more than a little.

Almost as if on cue, his cell phone rang just as he was padding out of the bathroom. "Congratulations, Xavi," a gravelly voice greeted him.

"Puyi," Xavi said. "Don't tell me: Iker just happened to mention that I could use some cheering up."

"It was David, actually. But I was going to call anyway, I just wanted to give you a chance to wake up."

"Thanks," Xavi replied. It occurred to him that, while it wouldn't be fair to discuss his doubts with Iker, Puyi was a more or less neutral party and had always been a good listener and both thoughtful and pragmatic in his advice. "Puyi... can I ask you something?" He felt suddenly shy.

"Of course."

"You have to promise not to mention it to Iker."

He could almost hear the smile in Puyi's voice as he answered, "I don't think that will be a problem."

Still Xavi hesitated for a few seconds before taking a deep breath and blurting, "Do you think that there's something wrong with me?"

"God, where to start?" and that was undoubtedly David hanging over Puyi's shoulder, trying not to laugh and failing miserably.

"I'm hanging up," Xavi said furiously, and did.

About a minute later his phone rang again. He let it go to voicemail. Then a text message appeared: "very sry. guaje is gone now. pls call me back." Xavi wavered. The next time the phone rang, he picked up.

"Sorry," Puyi said immediately. "David always thinks that laughter is the best medicine. I told him to go home for a while."

"I was serious," Xavi said plaintively. "What's the matter with me?"

"Xavi, and please don't hang up, I am not mocking you, but I am going to have to ask you to be more specific."

He leaned back against the satiny wood of the headboard and closed his eyes. "I don't know, I just... Do you think that I fall in love with the wrong people on purpose?"

Puyi paused. "It's been over two years since Elsa," he said carefully.

"I know, I... I'm not just talking about Elsa."

"You've been very discreet," his friend observed.

"Puyi, just..." he exhaled noisily. "Listen. Andrés is getting married next month. Little Leo is going to be a father, for god's sake. I'm thirty-two years old, and I feel like I'm further away from having a family than ever."

"I'm thirty-four," Puyol rumbled good-naturedly. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

Xavi refrained from making any snide remarks about dating twenty-year-old models and stuck to the point. "I'm not sure, but... I wonder why I pick people even though I know there are reasons why it won't work out. Maybe it's even because I know it won't work out."

Puyi paused again before replying; Xavi knew that he was thinking hard, trying to be honest and yet as helpful as he could. If he thought it strange that Xavi had mentioned "people" instead of "women" or "girls," he didn't let on.

"Xavi... is it possible that you don't really want to commit to someone right now, but you believe that you should?" When Xavi didn't respond right away, he added, "You're a very loyal and honorable person, and I think that it would be hard to admit this to yourself. But even if you are not ready now, it doesn't mean that you will never be."

"Um," said Xavi, intensely uncomfortable, but knowing that he had only himself to blame for bringing this up in the first place.

"You wanted to know what I think. I think that you are still young. I think that we belong to a profession that makes it hard to meet people and to be sure that their interest is sincere. I think that if you discover that you like someone, you should try to relax and enjoy the moment and not worry so much about what the future might bring."

"You do remember who you're talking to, right?" Xavi couldn't stop himself from snarking.

Puyi chuckled. "Oh yes. But it gets easier with practice. I promise."

"I'll try," Xavi assured him. "I don't know exactly how, but I'll try."

"And what about everything else? The team is doing well? _El Niño_ seems to be very uneven in his performances," Puyi added, apparently apropos of nothing.

"Hmm, yeah, he and Cesc have had quite the little rivalry going on," Xavi said, trying to keep his tone light.

"I think that is not the only rivalry he is experiencing," Puyi said drily.

Xavi tensed up. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know," his friend said airily. "Negredo, Silva, Navas... with _Guaje_ gone, Del Bosque can't seem to settle on a striker."

"Oh yes, that," Xavi agreed hastily, trying not to reveal the relief he felt. "It's been kind of crazy. Well, listen, I need to go, but thanks for calling, and for the advice."

"No problem," Puyi said. "See you soon."

Xavi hung up and let his burning face fall into his hands.

*

Iker found him still sitting like that when he returned to the room a few minutes later.

"Xavi?" He walked right on over and sniffed at him. "Well, at least you showered. Want to come out with me and give housekeeping a chance to change the sheets?"

Iker had always been fastidious about sheets, even when he wasn't the one who had to sleep in them, so this wasn't a ruse to get him to stop sulking and leave the room, or at least, it wasn't _just_ that. Xavi raised his head a little and peeked at Iker from between his fingers. "Out where?"

"Anywhere," Iker shrugged. "Everyone else seems to be in the city enjoying our day off."

"What took you so long, then?" Xavi asked, running a hand through his damp hair and reaching for his sandals.

"They were still serving breakfast."

"Better watch out or you really will look like a giant traffic cone in that new kit," Xavi warned.

Iker smirked at him. "Says the man whose away jersey looks like a tropical fruit cocktail. What's the strategy, blind your opponents so they can't steal the ball?"

"Wait a minute." A new thought had just occurred to Xavi. "Why aren't you spending the day with Sara?"

Iker looked uncomfortable. "She, we, um. Well. The truth is, we were having brunch and I proposed to her. And she turned me down again, so we decided it would be better if we both took the rest of the day to calm down."

Xavi sat up straight. "Wait a minute. What do you mean, again? How many times have you proposed?"

"This makes three," Iker said, getting even redder.

"Why haven't you told me?"

"You _know_ why." Iker sounded aggrieved.

"No. No, you do not get to. No. I am your _friend_ , Iker. I am not a child and you do not have to fucking _protect_ me."

"Well, what about Sara, do I get to fucking protect _her_?" Iker shouted. They both froze and stared at each other. After a few seconds, Iker swallowed compulsively. "Maybe I didn't want to tell you. Maybe I didn't want to give you any more ammunition for your arguments about why I shouldn't be with her."

"That's not fair," Xavi objected, outraged. He was feeling angry about, betrayed by, and sorry for Iker all at once. "I have _never_ tried to get between you, not since I finally found out what was going on."

Iker sighed and deflated, running a hand up the back of his neck and ruffling his thinning brown hair. "I'm sorry. I know you haven't, that was a shitty thing to say. It's just... I love her, Xavi. It's okay with me if she's not ready to get married. I intend to wait for her. I know that she loves me too and that eventually she'll come around."

"Is there a 'but' coming?" Xavi said, more softly now.

"But..." Iker said, just as softly, "once in a while, especially when I've just been rejected, I have my doubts. And I didn't want to discuss them with my ex. It wouldn't be fair to you _or_ her."

Xavi, about to argue again, remembered why he had called Puyi about his own problems and fell silent.

"Do you understand?" Iker asked. He reached down to put his hand on Xavi's shoulder.

Xavi raised his own hand and threaded his fingers through Iker's. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah."

"So we're okay?" Xavi could see his own solemn face reflected in Iker's eyes. For the first time he noticed the fine lines that had formed at their corners.

"Sure," he agreed, and then allowed a mischievous note to creep into his voice. "Except that the next time I see Sara, I'm going to tell her not to agree to marry you unless we retain this title and win another World Cup as well."

"You _wouldn't_ ," Iker said, horrified, and when Xavi began to giggle, he grabbed the nearest pillow and began walloping him with it. Xavi in turn reached for another to retaliate, and before long, feathers were flying all over the room, and both of them were flushed and breathless with laughter.

"I think you're right," Xavi said finally after they had surveyed the damage silently for a few seconds. "Let's get out of here, and hopefully the housekeeping fairies will take these sheets away and leave mints under the pillows."

*

Gniewino was tiny; Xavi suspected that the _Selección_ had been housed here precisely because there was little to do but practice. But the "Kashubian Eye" featured a number of recreational activities, mostly aimed at families, and Xavi persuaded Iker to leave his dignity at the hotel door and play with him for the rest of the day.

They climbed the 212 spiral stairs of the hourglass-shaped "pupil," Iker puffing a little as they neared the top, with its views of the Baltic Sea and surrounding countryside. They rented electric cars and raced each other around, hollering like schoolboys. They played a friendly competitive game of mini-golf, with Xavi giving himself a handicap of 8 and still winning without breaking a sweat. (Iker said that it really wasn't a fair contest, given that Xavi's main purpose in life was accurate ball delivery, while his own was _preventing_ balls from hitting their targets, but Xavi only laughed and demanded the beer they'd bet.)

It had been a while since they'd spent so much time together in activities that didn't involve football, and with the weight of the captain's armband absent, Iker especially seemed younger and more carefree than he had in years. They both waxed nostalgic after a couple of drinks, smiling at each other fondly across the table.

"Do you remember the time we missed the train out of Granada and begged the station master to let us get on the next one-" Xavi began.

"And at first we thought he must not have recognized us, but then it turned out that he did, but he hated Real Madrid _and_ Barcelona because we'd both humiliated his team in the league earlier that year," Iker finished, chuckling. "We had to spend the night in Granada and missed the morning practice. Puyi was so pissed off."

"Do you remember when you took me to meet your dad's maiden aunties in Madrid, and I was still so jet-lagged from the Club World Cup that I forgot to stop pouring the coffee and it ran all over the table?"

Iker laughed until his eyes watered. "I've never seen you so apologetic, before or since."

"Do you remember that autumn evening in Sevilla when we drank _manzanilla_ under the stars and listened to guitar music wafting across the plaza?" Xavi had dropped his eyes, and now looked hesitantly up at his friend.

"That's a perfect memory," Iker said, sobering at once and meeting Xavi's eyes with a serious, almost reverent expression. "I'll never forget it." His knee bumped Xavi's companionably under the table.

"Me neither," Xavi agreed, surprised by the strong sense of gratitude that had swept through him. Even if that phase of his long relationship with Iker was over, he wouldn't trade the memories they'd shared for anything. "Me neither."

*

If their goal had been taking each other's minds off their respective romantic troubles, they were almost successful. But towards the end of the afternoon, as they were walking past the life-sized dinosaurs, following their own shadows away from the setting sun, Xavi spotted a familiar figure and froze, causing Iker to bump into him from behind.

Nando was standing there next to the Tyrannosaurus Rex, his little girl - Nora? - in his arms, his boy Leo holding onto his pantsleg with one small fist. Xavi was too far away to hear what they were saying, but Olalla had her head tilted, a stubborn set to her mouth, and Nando looked somber. Then Leo tugged, and Nando glanced down and smiled at him, his whole face lighting up.

Something twisted hard in the vicinity of Xavi's heart. He swallowed, turned away, and headed back up the path the way they'd come, hoping that Nando hadn't been able to recognize his face against the sunset. His thoughts were racing a mile a minute.

Iker followed him without a word, his lips pressed tightly together.

*

Neither of them alluded to the encounter that evening. It was easy to speak of other things, to be distracted by the stories of their returning teammates' adventures around town and in Gdansk. Cesc in particular waxed positively lyrical about a pastry shop he'd found that sold something called paczki.

Xavi was enjoying the stories, but his gaze drifted hopefully towards the door with every new arrival. The minutes, then hours, ticked by with no sign of Nando. Eventually Xavi gave up and excused himself, saying truthfully that he hadn't gotten enough sleep the night before (although he strongly suspected that neither had anyone else).

On his way back, he caught Nando at the end of the corridor with his key in the door of his hotel room. Xavi brightened, took a deep breath, broke into a trot.

Nando glanced up and visibly flinched, looked down again and seemed to shrink into himself as he struggled with the key.

 _"Niño,"_ Xavi said loudly. "Do you have a minute?"

The other man let go of the key and crossed his arms over his chest, looking wary. "What is it?"

Xavi caught up to him, almost reached out to touch his arm, then thought better of it. "I just wanted to say... I'm sorry. For what happened this morning."

Nando opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked more puzzled than appeased, but his stiff stance relaxed visibly. Encouraged, Xavi continued, "You're right. You never pretended that this was anything other than what it was. I had no right or reason to be disappointed."

Trying to smile, he reached up now and clasped the back of Nando's neck. "I knew this job was dangerous when I took it."

Nando looked down at him for a long moment. Then, "Apology accepted," he husked, and bent down to enfold Xavi in a hug. Xavi sagged against him in relief, inhaling his scent, feeling his heart beat beneath his ear.

When they pulled apart, Nando cocked his head questioningly towards the door, but Xavi backed away. "Not tonight."

"But maybe some other time?" Nando was clearly trying not to sound too eager, but it made him uncomfortable nonetheless.

"I don't know," Xavi answered honestly. He tried to smile. "See you tomorrow."

*

Their double helping of training the next day kept both captains too busy to worry about their love lives. Iker was back to looking stressed as he took notes during the strategy session, Torres tense in front of goal in their mock match. Xavi was feeling very good physically, though, and thorough immersion in the preparations for the final was an effective distraction from the decision he still had to make.

At the end of their afternoon practice, Xavi slung an arm around the shoulders of Torres, who was obviously struggling not to look downcast. "Tomorrow will be better," he assured him.

"Tonight?" Torres asked out of the side of his mouth.

Xavi hesitated for a second, feeling torn; then shook his head, released him, and walked on.

*

The day before the final was packed with the kind of PR responsibilities that Xavi and Iker had come to embrace as an essential part of their leadership roles. Mindful of Puyol's earlier admonishments, Xavi tried his best to be politic as well as candid during his interviews. He admitted that he hadn't always been at his best during the tournament and hoped very much that he could play his top game for the final. He even acknowledged that he couldn't say whether this would be his last major tournament or not, although he stressed that he felt fine and was taking part in the team victories thus far.

But when he was asked whether he agreed that Spain's style of play, their narrow wins and lack of rapid counterattacks, had become boring to watch, he couldn't help but laugh. "If we are boring but we are winning, that is fantastic for us."

He wasn't bored. He would keep on playing his game.

*

True to their word, Puyi and David turned up later that afternoon. If there had been any doubts about the appropriateness of bringing in the former NT players, they were dispelled immediately by the universal pleasure and excitement that greeted their arrival. And having watched and analyzed all of Spain's and Italy's matches so far, the injured veterans addressed themselves adroitly to each player, offering a word of warning here, a hug of encouragement there.

It wasn't too long before it was Xavi's turn; Puyi pulled him into a quiet corner and asked after his tendons. "Best they've been all year," Xavi said, and that much was true, even if the bar hadn't been set all that high.

"And the other business?" Puyi rumbled.

"Still unresolved," he had to admit.

"Resolve it," Puyi said sternly. "Before the match if possible. Distractions like that are the last thing you need right now."

Xavi muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Easy for you to say," and Puyi placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

 _"Fuerza,"_ he said softly. "Follow your heart. Whatever you do, it will be all right in the end."

"How do you know?" Xavi couldn't help asking.

"I know _you_ ," was the answer, as Puyi squeezed him reassuringly and moved on.


	5. Final Encounter

Xavi wasn't quite sure how or why or even exactly when it happened. Maybe it was because of his newfound equilibrium with Iker, his acceptance that their past was past and his sense of security in their friendship, present and future. Maybe Puyi's well-meant words of wisdom had continued to simmer somewhere in the back of his brain. He also couldn't deny that he was always pumped up the night before a big match, almost bursting out of his skin with the desire to share his excitement with someone else, and this was one of the biggest.

Whatever the reason, when Nando knocked on his door around 22:00, Xavi found that he was ready to say yes.

"I've been waiting for you all evening," he said peevishly, then winked.

Torres stood there, all dressed up, a slow smile spreading across his freckled face. "Good," was all he said.

"I don't know where we can go, though," Xavi warned him. "Iker's staying here tonight, and he'll probably be back any minute. Mata?"

"He's in the room." But Torres didn't look disappointed; in fact, his eyes were dancing. "But it's okay."

"Speak for yourself," Xavi murmured, stealing a quick kiss after glancing up and down the corridor.

"No, really," Torres said, beckoning mysteriously. "I have a surprise."

"I don't like surprises," Xavi said bluntly.

"You'll like this one," Torres promised. He drew Xavi after him into the elevator, then took off his tie and blindfolded him with it over his protests, the silk pressing lightly against his eyelashes. "Just trust me."

Xavi felt almost giddy, his heart thudding in his ears. Once the elevator started moving, it was all he could do not to grab Torres' arm with one hand and rip his blindfold off with the other. "Where the hell are we going?"

"Just relax," Torres murmured in his ear, slinging an arm around his rigid shoulders. Xavi fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other, as the elevator continued to climb. Not to be able to see, not to be in control... these were very difficult things for him, and yet he knew how important it was for him to show Torres that he trusted him.

Finally a flutter in his gut informed him that the elevator had come to a halt. Torres kept an arm around his shoulders but took him by the hand with the other and nudged him forward, steadying him when he half-tripped at the entrance. "Now we have some stairs."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Xavi groused, but when Torres changed his grip and lifted his hand, he raised his knee and felt around for the first step.

"One," Torres said encouragingly. "Two..."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Just a few more steps. One more. Okay, don't move." Xavi heard a door creak open, felt cool air flow past the lower part of his face. "Now come forward a couple of steps." As soon as he had, Torres untied the blindfold and whipped it off with a flourish. "We're here!"

"Here" turned out to be the hotel roof, which had a sturdy awning over the entrance to the stairs in case of inclement weather. And there was a-

"You dragged your _mattress_ ," Xavi gasped, "onto the hotel roof?"

"I put a sheet down first," Torres said, his face falling a little. "Don't worry, this will be perfect-"

"Oh sure, perfect, until it starts raining, or better yet, some fucking news helicopter just happens to swing around and then our naked asses show up all over the internet."

"Xavi," Torres said firmly, and he realized that he had begun to babble. "There isn't a cloud in the sky, and we'd hear a helicopter long before they'd realize we were here." He grasped Xavi by the hand and slowly pulled him closer, bent his head to kiss the pulse at his wrist and the tender inside of his elbow.

"Mosquitoes," Xavi whispered, feeling himself starting to weaken.

Torres looked up and smiled. Without letting go of Xavi's hand, he reached into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out a tube of insect repellant. "Now I have an excuse," he said, "to run my hands all over you."

Xavi couldn't help but laugh at him. "Nando, that shit is _poison_. If you rub that into my skin, your mouth shouldn't go anywhere near me."

Nando raised an eyebrow, looked down at the tube in his hand, glanced pointedly at Xavi's crotch and then back to the tube, and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed a few feet behind him and rolled until it came to rest on the grate over a drain.

"Then we'll keep our clothes on," he promised, " _mostly_ ," and he reached for the fastenings of Xavi's fly. They kissed, hard and hungrily, while Nando palmed him with a firm, slow stroke over his briefs until he groaned and pushed himself urgently against the other man's hand. Then Nando knelt on the mattress, sitting back on his heels, and Xavi bared and braced himself and closed his eyes, trembling at the first touch of Torres' tongue.

Nando's grip was sure, his mouth soft and sweet, and he was doing something absolutely incredible to the underside of Xavi's cock. "Fuck, Nando," he breathed, " _fuck_ ," and it was all he could do not to try to take control, to dictate the pace of this game, but he didn't. Instead, he made himself match the other man's rhythm, his autonomy melting away moment by moment, until he could no longer tell where his own skin ended and Nando's lips began, until-

"I take it back," he gasped, hips bucking involuntarily, hands tightening on Torres' shoulders, "this was ahhhh... _great_ idea... _aaahhh_..." and for a second he literally saw stars as his whole body shuddered and his blood pressure peaked and dropped.

The next thing he knew, he was on his knees, nose smashed against Nando's chest and bones like butter. He would have been horrified to realize that he was drooling a little on Nando's shirt if he hadn't been so goddamned happy. "Um," Xavi stammered, "sorry," and he tried to push himself away but only succeeded in wrapping Torres' arms more tightly around himself.

The striker stroked his back soothingly and kissed the top of his head. "Stop, you're fine. That was _amazing_ ," he said softly, and Xavi suddenly realized that, once again, he hadn't arrived alone - even if he couldn't see anything from his current position, his chin tucked against the other man's chest, he could smell the distinctive musk emanating from the front of Torres' trousers.

As bemused as before, he twisted his head around until he could look up at Nando, who smiled back and leaned down to kiss him, lips closed.

"You were right," Xavi said when they pulled apart, "I liked this one."

Torres laughed, clear and loud as a child, and then lay back, pulling Xavi down beside him. The moon was about three quarters full tonight, but it must have been rising on the opposite side of the building. The first few stars were beginning to shiver in the dusk.

"Nando," Xavi said suddenly, "was that the last time?"

Torres tensed, not having to ask what he meant. "I don't know," he admitted.

"It's never really something you know, is it?" Xavi mused, mostly to himself. "I mean, if you did, if you knew for sure that this was it, that someone was going to break up with you, or walk away, or whatever, well, you probably wouldn't go through with it at all."

"Wouldn't you?" Nando asked. He took Xavi's wrist, started small circular strokes with his thumb. "Are you sorry I brought you here?"

Xavi hesitated for only a split second before lifting his arm to brush his lips across the back of Nando's hand. "No," he said, and he realized that it was true. "I feel like maybe I should be, but... no. I'm not sorry."

"Good," said Nando, and fit his body more snugly against him.

"This might be our last Euro," Xavi ventured after a few more minutes.

"Mmm," Nando said sleepily. "Are you sorry Del Bosque brought you here?"

Xavi snorted and punched him in the arm, not hard, and Nando smiled in a self-satisfied way without opening his eyes.

But Xavi was thinking now, trying hard to work it out. "You really don't think there's a difference? There has to be."

"' _Has_ to'?" Nando repeated, sounding amused. "I don't see why. If you enjoy doing something with your whole heart, and you know that one day circumstances will force you to stop, how could it be better to have done it one less time than you possibly could have?"

"Love," Xavi corrected him.

"Hmm?"

"I _love_ playing football with my whole heart," Xavi explained.

"I know you do," Nando said gently, and wrapped an arm around him. "Everybody knows it."

Xavi lay there for a moment, quiet, thoughtful, staring up at the stars. "It's like this," he said finally. "When I play, I forget about myself. I don't worry about how I look or whether I'm going to complete a pass or whether I'm going to score. I just try to keep track of my teammates and to share the ball when we have it and to take it back when we don't. I think that's the problem you've been having."

He slipped his hand into Nando's then and squeezed to take away the sting of what he was about to say. "You're a good person, Nando. A generous person. You've let me see that side of you. But on the pitch, strikers tend to be selfish. For some, it works. For you... I think it's too much pressure. So stop thinking about yourself and whether you'll be able to score. Think instead about your team and how you can help us to win."

Nando was watching him now, eyes glittering in the dark. He shook his head a little as if trying to clear it. "Del Bosque probably won't even let me play tomorrow," he pointed out, clearly preparing himself for the worst.

Suddenly a light streaked faintly across the sky near the horizon. Torres tensed and sat up. "Did you see that?"

"A shooting star," Xavi acknowledged, and he couldn't have denied a twinge of excitement.

Torres had squinched his eyes tightly shut again. "I know what I'm wishing for."

Once Xavi would have scoffed aloud at the idea. Instead he sat up as well, slipping an arm around Nando's slender shoulders. "Me too," he said. "Me too."

*

As he stood solemnly during Spain's national anthem, Xavi felt no real nervousness, only a kind of alert excitement that sent his blood bounding joyously through his veins. The knowledge that this might well be his last major international final might once have depressed him. Instead, it only heightened his senses and increased his determination to enjoy every moment of the match to the fullest.

Their first goal was as unexpected as it was gorgeous, a perfect example of Spain's passing game. Xavi fed the ball to Andrés, who sent it through to Cesc charging forward. Blocked by an inside defender, Cesc looked to be forced over the goal line, but just in the nick of time, he knocked the ball back into the box... and it was slammed up and into the net by the forehead of none other than little David Silva.

Then, shortly before halftime, Jordi Alba passed Xavi the ball and took off like a speeding bullet as if daring the midfielder to catch him. Xavi obliged by dribbling a bit before sending the ball out just ahead of Jordi and the furiously pumping defender beside him, and even Buffon's last-ditch attempt to stop the shot by coming out off his line couldn't keep the ecstatic winger from scoring.

Del Bosque did his best to calm them down in the dressing room, reminding them that there were still at least forty-five minutes left for Italy to make a comeback. But Xavi knew deep in his marrow that this was a day when they couldn't possibly lose. Piqué and Ramos were working together like they'd been partnered centerbacks all their lives, Andrés was moving like a magician, Jordi was unstoppable, and he, Xavi, was having his best match of the tournament. The only damper on his excitement was the sight of Torres looking on wistfully from in front of his locker.

On sudden impulse, Xavi trotted over to Del Bosque's side and asked to have a word. The older man looked down at him, surprised but genial as ever. "I think that you should sub Torres in," Xavi told him. "This is going to be a good day for him, I'm certain of it."

Del Bosque's mouth twitched under his moustache, and he laid an avuncular hand on Xavi's shoulder. "We'll see," was all that he would say.

And indeed, as Spain's manager had warned them, the Italians were not done yet. Di Natale came on for Cassano and nearly scored twice in six minutes, his second chance blocked by an alertly advancing Iker. But once they lost a second player to injury - Thiago Motta, who could no longer be replaced - the match was all but over. Recognizing this, Xavi deliberately slowed the tempo of play, feeling his way to what he hoped would be a surprising, spectacular crescendo at the finish.

In the 75th minute, Torres was sent on for Cesc, and from the moment he stepped onto the pitch, Xavi felt the connection, the invisible threads strung tightly between them. He knew where his teammate was at any given moment, without having to look, and ten minutes later, when he managed to steal the ball back from Pirlo midfield, he passed it straight to him. The look of triumph on Torres' face after he scored was the most beautiful thing that Xavi had ever seen.

And then just four minutes later, he fed Torres the ball again, a long ground pass almost straight down the middle. This time, instead of shooting, Torres flicked it back to Juan Mata beside him, generously gifting him with the goal, and Xavi's heart almost burst with pride - for Torres and for his team.

As Mata jumped joyfully into his teammate's arms, Xavi jogged towards the box in line with the defenders, and by the time he reached them, the group hug had all but dispersed. But Torres' face lit up at the sight of him, and he grabbed Xavi and whirled him around, shouting in triumph.

"Man of the Match," Xavi told Torres hoarsely when he could catch his breath, but the taller man grinned and shook his head.

"You, it should be you," he laughed, and he clasped the back of Xavi's neck and kissed him firmly on the cheek.

And just like that, the match was over, 4-0 after so many had said that Spain couldn't summon a decent striker to save its life, and they were all screaming and hugging and exchanging jerseys with the Italians who weren't already in tears.

It was only much later when he saw the group photos from the dressing room and on the pitch with their second consecutive Euro cup that Xavi realized Torres had always made sure to pose beside him, and that he in turn had placed his hand possessively on Torres' inner thigh. What he remembered from the post-match frenzy was watching as Nora got handed to Nando, grubby doll in one little fist, and later as the striker kissed and embraced Olalla, the Spanish flag wrapped around his waist.

Xavi's parents and siblings were here to see him, of course they were, but he still felt a threatening lump in his throat as he watched Torres celebrate with his wife and kids. He would be going home with them to England, and Xavi to an empty house in Terrassa. He had to wonder whether he would manage to create a family of his own now that his first love, football, would soon be leaving him for younger men.

Just then, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and when he turned, Iker wrapped him in his arms and hugged him close. "Two assists in a Euro final," their captain shouted in his ear as Xavi squeezed him back, feeling his heart swell with gratitude. He inhaled deeply, delighting in his old friend's familiar scent, edged now with bruised grass and fresh sweat. No matter what, Mourinho's best efforts included, some things would never change.

"Not bad for a guy everyone was saying should retire, eh?" Iker slung an arm around Xavi's shoulders jovially, pretending not to notice when Xavi swiped his shirtsleeve across his eyes. "C'mon, _abuelo_ , let's go parade the cup."  



	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

As he and Iker were packing the next day for the flight back, Leo called Xavi to congratulate him. "Enhorabuena! I knew that you could do it!"

"Thanks! I still can't believe it. I mean, I knew that we _could_ do it... but for a while there, I really didn't think that we were going to."

"Was it very difficult to play with the guys from Real Madrid?" Leo asked sympathetically. "There have been rumors... Ramos and Geri..."

"And Arbeloa, and Alonso," Xavi sighed. "God, there were certainly moments... but Iker and I were able to help _el Míster_ smooth things over."

"Your diplomatic skills are legendary," Leo deadpanned.

But Xavi's mind was already plunging ahead. "So what do you think? Will Andrés finally take the Ballon d'Or away from you this year?"

Leo neatly sidestepped that thorny question by saying softly, "It would make me very happy to have the three of us standing up there together again."

Xavi snorted. "I think that Ronaldo might have something to say about that, after winning La Liga and taking Portugal to the semifinals."

"Maybe if he had taken them to the final..." Leo mused.

"Listen to you!" Xavi said, laughing. "Aren't you supposed to be the humble one?"

"It has nothing to do with me," Leo protested. "Awards like that are given for winning. Not for coming closer than expected."

"If he had taken his shot earlier, they might have gone through instead of us."

"Exactly," Leo said solemnly.

Just then, something flickered in Xavi's peripheral vision, and he glanced up to see Iker, luggage in hand, peremptorily tapping his watch. "Listen, Leo, I've got to go, but I'm really glad you called."

"Well, I wouldn't want to be accused of poor sportsmanship," Leo said slyly, and this time the reference was too obvious to be ignored.

Xavi groaned. "Not you, too. Am I ever going to live that down?"

"Maybe around the same time that people quit imitating Ramos dropping the Copa," Leo responded.

"That joke will never get old," Xavi grinned.

*

As usual, Pepe kept them in stitches on the plane, starting with his imitation of the flight attendant's demonstration of the safety features. Far from acting irritated at his antics, the flight attendant began playing right along with him, waiting for him to get hold of the right props before continuing, etc. Beside Cesc, Geri was gleefully getting the whole thing on film.

For some reason, Liverpool solidarity, whatever, Nando had decided to sit with Pepe, several rows away. Xavi had ended up next to Pedro, who apparently had a death wish since he was immediately challenged to a game of Parcheesi. Or maybe Pedro just knew somehow that he needed a little cheering up, and guessed correctly that winning at a game, any game, would help.

The late afternoon heat of the tarmac greeted them like a blast furnace, and Barajas was a madhouse, hundreds of well-wishers waving and cheering and snapping photographs with their phones as Iker and Del Bosque held up their trophies. First they had to head to a welcome party at La Zarzuela Palace, and only once the photo ops with the royal family were over did they board the bus that would take them on parade through the city until they reached Cibeles.

The crowds were far beyond anything Xavi had ever experienced, even after the World Cup two years ago, tens of thousands of people clogging the streets, an endless sea of red and gold and smiling faces. He spent most of his time in the front of the bus, where the Barcelona contingent were clowning around, occasionally pretending that they were about to drop the trophy. Drink after drink was passed to him; to pace himself, he made sure to drink water and chew a stick of gum between each one. (Not so much Xabi Alonso, who despite being approximately twice Xavi's size could barely walk unassisted by the time they arrived at Cibeles.)

At one point, Silvia Barba cornered him and prodded, "Xavi Hernández, what a day at Cibeles! Do you have anything to say?"

Even as he shifted his gum to the side of his mouth and began to respond, he felt a familiar arm slide supportively around his shoulders. "Well, yes, I'm happy, happy for all of the people, for us too. I think that it was a deserved victory, and well, whatever - we have made history and now it's time to celebrate. We're very satisfied, yes!"

Her gaze shifting upwards to Torres, the reporter began babbling about how he had indeed made history and so had the man standing behind him, but she had to reach out and plant her hand on the striker's chest to get his attention. Nando didn't remove his arm as he inclined his head courteously to say, "Well, it's the luck of playing in a team with these guys," and he opened his fist to give Xavi's shoulder an inconspicuous squeeze.

"Xavi Hernández is very good, isn't he?" Silvia said conspiratorially, and Xavi tensed up, his lubricated brain going off in all sorts of inappropriate directions.

"No, don't believe it," Nando joked, and both of them relaxed and broke out in broad grins. Xavi wrapped his arm gratefully around Nando's waist and gave him an affectionate half-hug as the reporter motioned Juan Mata over.

"What a great assist Fernando Torres gave you yesterday," she was saying as Xavi tuned out, smiling and waving to a couple of especially enthusiastic fans.

His attention shifted back to Silvia when he heard his name; apparently she had just asked Mata what it was like to play with him. He frowned, listening hard despite his own better judgment, not daring to look at the Chelsea man in case he caught a glimpse of insincerity. "He's an example to all the younger players in Spanish football, a legend who still keeps playing, and hopefully he'll continue for a long time." Beside him, Nando squeezed his shoulder again, and Xavi didn't need to see his face to know that he was smiling in agreement.

She was done with Mata, turning back to his teammate almost aggressively. "Listen, now that you've achieved this, what's next?"

"Now we're going to enjoy it because it took a lot out of us," Nando replied promptly, and Xavi patted the small of his back, thinking that this was no exaggeration.

"What's next?" she insisted, turning to, or possibly on, Xavi. "How are you going to surprise us?"

"Well, like Fernando said, we need to enjoy the moment, and then, well, the Confederations Cup, and then the World Cup, and we'll see, but for now we're going to enjoy it!" He could feel Nando shaking with silent laughter at his hubris, but he didn't care. There was no reason to think that they couldn't come through yet again, and he would stay on this ride for as long as he possibly could.

Apparently this had satisfied Silvia, who was ready for them to move on. "C'mon, c'mon, pick up the cup," she ordered. "Pass it to... let's see... give it to Andrés Iniesta."

Xavi couldn't help laughing at her bossy tone and obligingly handed the cup to Andrés, giving him a couple of encouraging pats as he passed by. At least this time Andrés wasn't so wasted that he would be unable to speak, and hopefully he was just relaxed enough not to be too nervous.

Ramos, right behind him, grinned and touched Xavi in a friendly way before bending a bit unsteadily to kiss the cup. _To see him now, one would have no idea that within two months, he will be doing his best to kick my ass all over the Bernabeu,_ Xavi thought, but there was no accompanying sour taste in his mouth, just acceptance of the unusual experience, however ephemeral. And within a few seconds, Nando had caught up to him again, pulling Xavi firmly against him from behind, and Xavi allowed himself to close his eyes and simply enjoy the moment.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Timeline and References**
> 
> Match descriptions were based on personal viewing as well as loads of material from [UEFA.com](http://es.uefa.com/uefaeuro/index.html)
> 
> 1 June The Barcelona players joined the national team in Madrid  
> 3 June Spain vs China, 1-0  
> 4 June [Preview of Xavi's provocative remarks to Canal+](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmBgssqfrXw) (aired in its entirety on June 7)  
> 5 June [Group photo](http://www.marca.com/2012/06/05/futbol/eurocopa_2012/espana/1338916189.html)  
> 5 June [Team arrives in Gdansk and checks into "Mistral Sport" hotel in Gniewino](http://futbolita.com/2012/06/05/euro-2012-a-peek-into-the-spanish-national-teams-home-in-poland/)  
> 9 June [Xavi and Iker's interview ahead of the Italy game](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TH7RPDj12Bo)  
> 10 June Spain vs. Italy, 1-1  
> 14 June Spain vs. Ireland, 4-0  
> 18 June Spain vs. Croatia, 1-0  
> 19 June [Sergio Ramos bowls with Barça players](http://futbolita.com/2012/06/23/euro-2012-france-spain-preview-feat-the-fernando-torres-bus-driver-bowling-clan-french-wags/)  
> 23 June Spain vs. France, 2-0  
> 27 June Spain vs. Portugal, 0-0 (4-2)  
> 30 June [Xavi and Iker's interview before the final](http://www.goal.com/en/news/2898/euro-2012/2012/06/30/3211546/xavi-unsure-if-euro-2012-will-be-his-last-tournament-with)  
> 1 July Spain vs. Italy, 4-0  
> 2 July [Xavi and Torres at Cibeles](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BlYu1238mq4)  
> 4 July [Xavi's father reveals Spain tensions](http://soccernet.espn.go.com/news/story/_/id/1122592/xavi%27s-father-claims-mourinho-objected-to-iker-casillas-friendship?cc=5901)


End file.
